Psychics
by Ryuuza Kochou
Summary: Alternate Universe. International rescue doesn't exist, or at least hasn't started yet. Join the trials and tribulations of the much younger Tracy boys, who aren't quite the Tracy boys you know...
1. Heroes of the Modern Age

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds and associated characters are owned by Gerry Anderson and his affiliated studios etc. I write this purely for entertainment, and no money is made off it.

Authors Notes: Huh. This one came out of nowhere, I wouldn't leave me be. I really love the Thunderbirds, and while I don't know where the idea for this little Alternate Universe emerged, it was too interesting an idea to be filed away. I don't know where I'm going with it, or if there is anywhere to go, but I thought it best to get it out there anyway.

In case you can't tell by reading, I'm a real sucker for brotherly and familial love and affection, and smarm.

The fic doesn't come from the movie-verse or the tv-verse, but is in a little world of its own. I used ages and seniority order more in common with the movie-verse, though. You might see those magnificent machines sometime later in the series.

Please read and review (and enjoy, of course).

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Psychics

By Ryuuza Kochou

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"Everyone smile!"

"Gordon! Don't even think about it!"  
"Since when are you clairvoyant?"

"Hah! It doesn't take a clairvoyant to know how _you_ think."

"You are getting kind of predictable there, Gordy…"  
"It's always embarrassing watching a tapped out performer doing the same old tricks."

"You should talk, Sprout, you never had any!"

"Guys! Can we please have one photo that includes no glaring, blinking, grimaces or unfunny gestures? Grandma will kill us if we can't at least get one!"

"She's got one! She's got hundreds…"

"Not including the half-a-dozen we've been standing here for. Why do we need copies anyway?"

"We have to be sure one comes out."

"At least three will. Come _on_, I wanna go down to the vintage car exhibit."

"One more."

"Uhg, I can't take this! This is _sooo boring_."

"That's it. I'm the oldest, I don't have to take this. Company! Eyes Forward! One more then you can all scram and do what you want."

"Can we get a hallelujah!"

"Gordon! Hands down, eyes forward! And I want smiles or no dessert tonight."

"Geez, you're no fun when you're uber air force man."

"Alan. Eyes..."

"Forward, got it."

"Oookay, that should just about do it (Scott do the honours now, while the gettin's good)."

click

"Finally!" Freed from his prison of posture, red-headed Gordon Tracy bounced out of the family pose to turn and look at the back drop of their portrait. "You know they've overblown a picture when you can see the nose hairs." His face wrinkled with distaste. His own father's enormous head looked down on him with a trademark quiet smile.

"They certainly made the display eye-catching I must say," John commented as he began to pack up the camera that had been perched rather precariously on the flat surface of a modern sculpture.

The other Tracy boys had to agree – giant faces stared at them from the walls and hung like tapestries from the ceiling, making the whole room look like a bizarre trophy room, peppered with glass cases, models and flickering screens filled with real life footage and interactive menus. Across the far wall, lit up with studio lighting, a raised sign proclaimed the hall a TRIBUTE TO THE HEROES OF THE MODERN AGE.

It had been a source tremendous amusement to the Tracy boys when they had learned of the exhibit at the metropolitan museum. John had appeared one morning snickering uncontrollably over the morning paper, where the others had been stunned (and then in fits) to see their father, Jeff Tracy, looking back at them as one of the main selling points of the museums exhibit.

They had questioned their father about it, and Jeff had shrugged uncomfortably and mumbled about some charity work and art patronage that the museum seemed to feel the need to pay him back for. By the time the usually reclusive billionaire had learned of the tribute, the plans were well in the works and there was no polite way to refuse the museum curators starry-eyed vision. Scott, the eldest Tracy son, had suspected that his father hoped the museum would escape the notice of his associates and his boys – it was the way his face had frozen up and gone blank when Grandma had called and loudly proclaimed her pride to everyone within earshot, and had promptly demanded that the boys go to the museum and 'take lots of photos' since she couldn't come up from Kansas herself. Scott also suspected that Grandma was well aware of this fact – old though she might be, the woman's sense of humour was still firmly intact. She always allowed herself the odd rare moment to wind her son up.

It made Scott smile too. Being the son of such a brilliant engineer, astronaut, entrepreneur, military man and stern patriarch was both daunting and brilliant, and the Tracy boys rarely ever got the opportunity to make the great man squirm. In the end, he had sighed, dragged out their most expensive camera with the air of a man going to the gallows, and told them to have fun, be careful and look out for one another.

Thirteen-year-old Alan Tracy looked around, and Jeff Tracy looked back from all directions. He sniggered over a photo of a young Jeff Tracy in the early days of his career in old NASA. "I can't believe Dad used to have a goatee."

Twenty one year old Scott grinned over his small blonde brother's shoulder. "That's nothing. When Mom was pregnant with Gordy he tried to grow an Errol Flynn moustache."

"No way!"

"I don't remember that," Eighteen year old Virgil looked up from the model of Olympus ('Ollie') 7, his dad's carrier for his first Mars landing.

"It didn't last very long," Twenty year old John chuckled as he slung the camera over his shoulder. "He had it for all of two months before mom cornered him with great-grandpa's straight razor and a calculating expression…"

Sixteen-year-old Gordon hooted with laughter. "No wonder she never watched Errol Flynn."

"She hated that moustache," Scott remembered reflectively.

"Hey, we're in here," Virgil pointed out a family portrait.

"Awww look, its Sprout when he was just a li'l shoot," Gordon's face cracked into an evil smile.

"A least _I_ didn't have a big freckle for a face," Alan retorted, annoyed. There were times when he loathed being the littlest little brother.

"Yeah, well, neither of you had pimples," John grimaced at himself in all his pre-adolescent glory.

"Not your best side," Virgil agreed, grinning.

"Mom looks pretty," Gordon said softly.

Yes, she surely did.

"Alright," Scott broke into the moment. "We had a deal. You can all go wherever for a couple of hours. Gordon, you stay with Alan."

"I have to go with _him_?"

"I have to go with _him_?"

"Yes," Scott rolled his eyes at the near-stereo outrage. "You do. No arguments, compromises, deals or contracts," he added before either could open their mouths again. "Dad gave me specific instructions not to let either of you wander around alone, and I'm willing to let you go off without an adult chaperone, but that's as far as I'll bend. You can _both_ go _together_ wherever you like _inside the museum_," Scott had learned not be ambiguous in his orders when it came to his mischievous youngest siblings. "Without Virgil, John or I, but you will be together _all the time_. And that's as good as it gets, so live with it."

"I'm _sixteen_ Scott!" Gordon glared irritably. "Sixteen."

"Consider it a safety measure, Gordy," Virgil smirked. "This way when you get into trouble, we won't have to run to two different places. Efficient, see?" He sniggered as he got a double "Shut up Virgil!" and an added "Whaddya mean _when_?" from an indignant Alan, who knew from experience that this was a losing fight but was determined to see it through to the bitter end.

"Oh, come on you two," John consoled philosophically. "The Vintage Vehicles hall and the maritime display are right next to each other. You'd be going there together anyway."

Gordon glared at John for his annoyingly inescapable logic, and huffed. "Fine. Fine! Come on Sprout, we're going to Sea Stalkers."

"Hey, how come you get to pick!"  
"Because I'm older, taller and wiser."

"Two out of three, anyway."

"Have fun!" Virgil called after their retreating backs as they bickered back and forth.

"Hey, hold on," Scott called after them. "Remember…"

"Don't split up, don't talk to strangers, don't draw attention, don't stray from the crowds," Alan answered him with the air of one reading off a checklist. Scott opened his mouth to try again. "And we'll meet in the food court in two hours, no more, no less." Alan finished for him.

"Not bad!" Gordon said admiringly as they rounded the corner out of the display hall.

"Not really," Alan shrugged. "Scott's as predictable as a metronome."

Scott was left standing with his finger raised and his mouth open. Without even turning to look he growled "Shut _up_ John!"

John was shaking with suppressed, silent laughter. Virgil was a lost cause, nearly prostrate on the floor, his face red as he guffawed.

"You might want to try…" John suggested innocently as he straightened, his face twitching. "To be just a little more…surprising?"

Virgil went double again at the look on Scott's face.

"Surprising, he says," Scott rolled his eyes. "As if anyone would have any trouble guessing where you want to go, star boy."

"I'm the academic," John replied with dignity. "I'm supposed to be reliable."  
"You mean boring," Virgil ribbed, grinning.

"Says the man about to make a bee line for tanks and trucks. Scott's not the only one getting predictable around here." John prodded Virgil's shoulder. "And you know what they say about guys who like big cars…"

"Yeah." Virgil punched John's arm playfully. "They don't have to compensate for _anything_."

He waved as he left on John and Scott's laughter.

John raised an eyebrow. "Aeronautical design?"

"Astronomy dome," Scott countered, and John chuckled. "When did we hit predictable-ville anyway?"

"We aren't predictable," John argued unconvincingly. "We're just too busy to be impulsive."

"Uh-huh," Scott looked idly out of the exit arch.

"Stop worrying, Scott, it'll be fine."

Scott snorted and his brother's soft-spoken advice. "I wouldn't if I wasn't totally convinced by now that if they aren't looking for trouble, it's only because its trouble's turn to look for them. And Virgil can attract his own brand when he wants to, he just chooses not to. Usually."

"Scott, they may be young but they certainly aren't stupid. They know they can't attract attention here, the _know_ it. They don't ever get the chance to do things like this either. They won't do anything to blow it, not on purpose."

"They don't _need_ to…" Scott stopped himself, because John was right. Whatever notable dangers there were in letting the Tracy boys out on their own, they did hardly ever get the chance to do something so…so normal. Scott certainly didn't want his brothers growing up living in fear of the outside world. "Never mind. I'll see you in a few."

Besides, Scott admitted to himself later as he critiqued the history of fighter jets up in the promenade level, it was kind of nice to get away and have the chance to quietly indulge in all their own interests for a while. Anyone who spent any time with the Tracy's for any length of time knew that they were the centre of each others universes, but it could get very exhausting at times.

It was just the way it had always been. They had moved around so much during the years after their mothers death – they were either shunted from city to city, going where the business was, or spending months at Grandma's farm miles from anywhere, certainly from any younger people. (And television sets. Computers. Video games. Oh, and mobile phones. The farm had belonged to the Tracys for centuries, they said, and apparently none of them had seen fit to change it from the day they owned it.)

So, the clan of Tracy boys had pretty much come to depend on one another for friendship and support. They bickered, fought, ribbed, pranked, teased, competed and argued relentlessly and endlessly, all day, any day, every day, unless of course some foolish outsider made an ill chosen remark about one of them, in which case the boys would lock together in an impenetrable Tracy fortress and bulldozer over anyone else like a siege engine. Otherwise, strong willed and responsible Scott would guide the mature and creative Virgil, quiet and scholarly John would keep the boisterous and mischievous Gordon in line, and they all turned around and utterly doted on the sensitive and chipper Alan.

It was a _good_ family, Scott knew. He'd known others in school, and some of Dad's business associates too, that dreaded the Christmas holidays, the family reunions, the weekend visiting with grandparents. It had always confounded Scott. His brothers crowded him certainly, annoyed him sporadically and even angered him occasionally – but there had never been a single day where he'd thought about leaving it forever and actually meant it. None of them had. They were the Tracys.

And at their head? Jeff Tracy, brilliant, pragmatic engineer (astronaut, entrepreneur, ex decorated Air Force Major), stern and disciplinarian patriarch and a tenderly affectionate and loving dad, who could broker international deals, steer the ship of Tracy Enterprises through currency crisis's, redesign and market Tracy Corp's machines, keep his boys in line, offer them advice and commiseration in their teenage and pre-adult agonies and encourage and take interest in their lives and talents, all in the same breath, all without missing a beat. Small wonder he had ended up immortalised in a museum long before death got a say in it.

Scott sighed – their lives weren't perfect, far from it. But surely alone it would be far worse.

He checked his watch – thirty minutes to go. Maybe he'd take them out to dinner, since they were living normally. Dad wouldn't be home until late and, Scott smirked wickedly, they could get the photos processed.

Around him, there was a rising murmur. He looked up, and was all the screens and lights start to flicker and crackle.

Then he felt it – like a cold wind across the bare matter of his brain, a tingling, ticklish sensation. And then words, stamped across the inside of his mind in white hot light, cutting through thought, memory and perception.

_Scott, get to the vehicle hall **right now!**_

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He broke speed records. He may have even broken the sound barrier.

When he arrived in the basement hall he had a confused sense of…fire. There was fire – a teen appeared to be holding a cigarette lighter that had gone crazy, flaring like a torch right near his face.

The crowd wasn't acting right either – instead of being drawn to the spectacle they were spreading out like a blooming flower, showing extraordinarily intense interest in the racing cars of the 20th century. Alan was talking to a group of people near to him, his face set in a shaky smile. The people kept trying to see past him, but their eyes seemed to skitter away from the scene. Their faces were confused, and were slowly turning to understanding under Alan's chatter. There were a few unctuous nods at the still frozen teen and his staring friends. No one appeared to notice the fire.

The fire was dying away, fizzing out like the oxygen had been sucked away from it. Around the flames shimmered a blurry, translucent rippling, a heat haze that looked confined. Scott looked around and saw Virgil's dark hair and solid form moving down the other set of stairs at the other end, one hand on the banister one hand out in from of him like a battering ram.

Scott flew down the stairs and dodged through the dispersing crowd. As he reached the teens and his brothers, the flames had died, starved, and Gordon appeared from where he had been bending down, retrieving Alan's backpack from where the stunned, nearly scorched teen had dropped it. Scott looked over at Alan, whose face was clearly bloodied.

"Alan! Gordon!"

They both turned, and Gordon winced slightly. Scott knew that gesture. It meant Gordon knew he was in for it.

"He…he…" the stuttering teen was still gripping his silver lighter while his friends all backed up. "That psycho, he…"

"Are you all right?" John appeared behind the teen, making him jump about two feet. "That was a nasty fall."

"Fall! That…he…he nearly set me on fire! And the other one was messing with me!"

"I didn't see any fire," John said softly. "Are you sure? Maybe your lighter just flared a little. Smoking is a filthy habit, by the way."

"There was a fire!" One skinny blonde girl piped up. "It was really big! Everyone saw!

"I never saw any fire young lady," an old woman retorted from the crowd. "I did see your young man hit that one there," she pointed to Alan, whose face was being tended to by Virgil. "And then…well, he must have fallen." The words sounded a little uncertain, but a sudden disbelief flared in her eyes. "Besides, fire that big would have started in a lighter!" There were uncertain nods from the few still watching, who were quickly dispersing to crowd around the exhibits.

"But…there was…" certainty seemed to drain out of the group of teens. Even the one with the cigarette lighter was frowning down at it.

"All right, everyone listen up," Scott spoke up in his most commanding voice. "That," he pointed to Alan, who was holding Virgil's handkerchief up to his nose. "Is my kid brother, and I don't like guys who take swings at him. You're lucky I don't need the hassle or I'd have you up on charges. Get lost, the lot of you! Before I call security!"

The teens fled from Scott's wrath. Scott could really say it like he meant it. Spectacle over, the people started flowing naturally among the exhibits again, unheeding of the five Tracy boys gathered in the centre.

Scott took a breath. "Right. All of you, follow me," he glared at his two youngest siblings and shepherded them ahead of him. Virgil and John followed, keeping a wary eye on the people around them as they took up sentry positions at the rear.

Scott stalked out of the basement, up the stairs and into the main entrance hall. He sidestepped through an arch and down a corridor, where a dimly lit hall with a velvet rope blocking the way. This portion of the museum was closed for renovation.

The metal stand skittered a few feet to the left as Scott strode by, as if it too was eager to stay out of his way. Virgil gently slid it back with his foot as he followed John in. Boy, Scott must really be peeved off.

Gordon tried to get a word in. "Scott…"

"Two hours. Two hours, that's all I asked for. How hard could that be?"

"Scott…"

"Don't even _start_ with me Gordon!" Scott yelled, and then took a deep breath. "John?"

John concentrated. "Security was called, but they won't find us. No one is thinking about fire." It was harder than people assumed for telepaths to pick up thoughts, especially in large crowds where, John had explained, for the most part all he picked up was a meaningless babble of mental chatter. But groups thinking on the same theme could make certain words and subjects easier to pick up.

"Virgil?"

"We're in a blind spot," Virgil assured him. He nodded towards the cameras, which if you focused for long enough, a slight, blurred heat haze type shape walled them, holding them pointing away from the five of them. Virgil leaned against the wall, his eyes closed.

Scott whirled on the two youngest, who were standing bereft of support before him. "_What happened?_"

Alan took the handkerchief away from his nose. His cheek and jaw was already bruising. "My armband," he sniffed experimentally, checking that the blood flow had stopped. Visible around his wrist was a plastic tag-like tie, coded with numbers. "It slipped out from under my sleeve and those guys noticed it and started messing with me. They stole my bag, and I couldn't just let them run off with it 'cause its got my ID and cell phone in it." Alan took a breath. "I tried to get the guy to give it back. I tried to make him want to," here he paused and frowned. "But my concentration broke and something slipped." Alan shrugged in the face of Scott's glare. "I…he started to feel fear, and I tried to calm him down..."

"Then that jackass punched him in the face and started to kick him when he went down. All his friends were laughing and the security guard on the gallery balcony turned his back." Gordon's hazel eyes were smouldering and murky. "I wasn't hurting him, I was just making him back off." He glared right back at Scott. "The fire wouldn't have touched him."

"That is so far off the point it's in another galaxy, Gordon," Scott growled. He rubbed his temples with one hand. "Let me get this straight. Some idiots decided mess around with you because of a stupid prejudice, and instead of doing the smart thing and getting help from the museum guards, you decide to play right into that prejudice and attack them, which, by the bye, if a far more illegal thing to do. Am I right so far?"

"Get help from where, Scott?" Alan's eyes shone with hurt and anger. "The only guard on that level saw what was happening to me – I made sure he noticed. He just looked the other way! He couldn't have cared less what happened to me. If I'd gone to get the guards at the main level, those kids would have left by then, and guards have to check our cards when we leave. We'd have to call Dad to get me out of lockup."

"It's bad enough the kind of crap we have to put up with just to be _allowed_ outside our own home," Gordon piped up, infusing the words with un-Gordon like bitterness. "We shouldn't have to let guys like that walk all over us just 'cause they need some entertainment."

"Oh, so you proved your point," Scott retorted angrily. "You really think what you did was vindicated? What if security had stuck around and saw what happened? It means a lot more that just a few hours in lock up and a fine if you get caught attacking people! If that what you two want? A padded isolation bin, getting doped up to your eyeballs and spending your days in a strait jacket? Do you honestly think it would be worth it?" Scott paced in a tight circle through plaster dust and plastic painters sheets. Neither Alan nor Gordon were looking at him. "Wake up, kiddies. Wake up and grow up! They don't like us very much out there. We're tolerated only because we're useful and only if we're _careful_. If you think things are bad now, you see how they start treating us when they really start fearing us!"

"You're a fine one to talk about being careful," Gordon shot back. "When we first started at Garstone people were flying around left and right when you walked in a room!"

"That was different," Scott replied coldly.

"Right, it's different when _you _do it," was the resentful rejoinder.

"They were people you would be dealing with for your entire education, everyday," John raised an eyebrow from where he perched on the cross section of some scaffolding. "It was important that they knew what the score was from the beginning. These guys, on the other hand, you don't even know their names and the likelihood of ever meeting them again is slim. What do you have to prove here?"

Gordon turned his glare on John. "We shouldn't have to just take it, not because they're the ones who are stupid and scared. At the very least that jerk will think twice before trying it again. The world must be really messed up when they are allowed to do whatever they like to us, just because _they_ have issues!"

"There are always going to people like that Gordon! Live with it! They've always got a reason, none of them are fair," Scott flung out a hand as he faced his unrepentant sibling. "What are you going to do, burn them all? What does that make you then? Don't think for a minute I like the way things are any more than you, but at least I know there a right time to protest! Attacking a guy just because he's stupid and narrow and trying to act like a big man in front of his friends? He wasn't even worth your time, certainly not worth risking a sentence. Jesus, the two of you could have gotten yourselves arrested! Pick your battles!" Scott stopped pacing and growling. He was running out of steam. "I can't wait to hear what Dad has to say," he groaned.

"You're going to tell him?" Gordon looked betrayed.

"Gordon, I won't have to. He'll know."

Gordon nodded gloomily. Jeff Tracy was neither a telepath like John nor an empathic clairvoyant like Alan, but he had a psychic power familiar to many otherwise ordinary men, which came under the category 'fatherhood'. Like most fathers, a look would be enough. He would know something had happened; after that it was a matter of time and patience.

"Two measly hours," Scott sighed. "It couldn't have been that hard Gordon."

Somehow Scott's soft disappointment was more damaging than his anger. Gordon began to look a little sorry. "It wasn't right, what they did."

"_We have to go…_"

Scott frowned at Gordon. "No, it wasn't. But you didn't do the right thing either. I know running to security is the wimp's option – I've been in the same position before. But anything's better than getting thrown into an institution and dragging Dad through the courts." That made Gordon flinch.

Neither of them had noticed Alan, but the still concentrating Virgil suddenly registered him.

"_We have to go. Now._"  
"Scott," Virgil straightened from his lean and headed towards Alan who, at some point in the argument, had put his head in his hands.

"Alan? What is it?" Scott got in close and gently tried to prise his brother's hands away from his face. The rest of them were gathering around.

"There's been an attack," Alan whispered. "The President….or…or someone…some people…they were killed, or they're going to be, in the White House. They…there's a lot of blood…" Alan tried to get a breath. His face shone with panic, and his eyes were unfocused. "And…and…" Suddenly the focus snapped back. "They're coming for us Scott. They're coming for us, we have to go now! Oh God all those _people_…"

"Alan? Alan, calm down. It alright, you're in a safe place," Scott got his hands on either side of Alan's face. Scott had never had more powerful vision than mild déjà vu, but Alan's were clear, powerful, terrifying and incredibly disorientating. Scott could feel panic start to tighten in his chest, and knew Alan was unintentionally projecting through his empathy.

"We have to _go_ Scott!"

"All right, we're going. John…" John was moving in before Scott even spoke. He could help Alan find some mental balance. He spoke to Alan quietly. Gordon took the camera case off him and packed in Alan's backpack, strapping it to his own back. Scott and Virgil moved to spy at the entrance and watch for an opportunity to move.

"Scott, Alan reckons it's just about to happen, if it hasn't already," John informed them, his arm around the pale Alan, gently shepherding a worried Gordon with his free one. Alan was beginning to show signs of a headache, from the tense lines of his forehead and bruised jaw.

"Right. Straight for the entrance, show your cards, don't say or do _anything_ to attract attention." Scott clapped Virgil on the shoulder, and gestured him to take the fore.

As they hurried past the main hall's coffee shop, Scott felt a sharp concern shoot through his chest and spur his movements. On the television sets mounted in the café, the White House had appeared, headlines flashing.

So much for a normal day…

They were running

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End – Part I


	2. It's All in the Family

Disclaimer: I don't own the Thunderbirds and make no money off this small and pretentious little fic.

Warnings: Very mild bad language, nothing especially graphic. There are some adult themes in this fic – prejudice and hatred, a little bit of political stuff, and the supernatural, so while not especially offensive in any way, it might be a bit complex for the very young.

Authors Notes: Well, I've hit second part, and a big and warm thank you to my reviewers who gave me enough enthusiasm to keep going. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

All right, I've got a bit of exposition to get through, so bear with me. This chapter is mostly an explanatory one – fleshing out the AU and beginning of the main plotlines. Not much action, but I've tried to make it as engaging as I can. For those of you who asked about the boys abilities, they are more fully explained in this chapter.

Regarding the psychic powers, I've made up the names for Jeff's and Virgil's powers – they are not scientific terms, simply because I couldn't find an equivalent and I wanted to make Jeff's, Scott's and Virgil's abilities distinct, even though they are pretty similar.

In answer to Virgil's Grl's question, when I looked up 'clairvoyance' I found that the academic view of the word is actually a blanket term for a whole mess of ESP categories – precognition, channelling (as in the dead), intuition, and many others. I found terms like 'clairsentience' and 'clairaudience' that may have been more accurate but, as scientific as they are, they just sounded like cobbled together words to me, and I wasn't sure anyone else would know them. I just stuck with the old favourite that most people would know of, hoping they would understand what I meant.

Oh, and the 'chapter summary' under the chapter title was a style I saw in Terry Pratchett's _Going Postal _(an author which I highly recommend), and I thought: that's really neat, I'll try that. Just in case, I don't own it or make money off it either.

_Please_ read and review – I always like to know what you think, even if you hate it.

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Part II – It's All in the Family

_In which there is – Jeff Tracy's Metal Dreams – A Phone Call – An Attack is Announced – All in the Family - the Engaging Mr Fenill – Enemies – the Papered Gate – the Laws of Physics – Virgil's Anger – Pizza! – Punishment – Alan's Vision – Gordon's Honesty _

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Jeff Tracy was still in his office when his mobile shrilled at him. He was glad of the distraction to wake him up. He was reading through the budgeting reports coming in from the various departments and as important a task as it was, his thoughts kept skittering away, drifting on the creators clouds.

In his mind, metal shells were wrapped around dreams, half formed shapes flew across the landscape of his engineering prowess. It was the new design for the TNDR17 engine that got him going – its efficient use of fuel and incredible thrust made it a fantastically powerful engine destined for use on shuttles for Tracy Corp's network of satellites.

A new engine designed for space flight. But in Jeff's mind, he wasn't seeing rockets. There was something else, something bigger and grander poking at his right lobe. He just needed to clear away the clutter and let the full vision take shape…

At times like this he would usually drag himself back to more mundane concerns – after all, he was no longer a young and brilliant engineer running half wild on the creative curve, trying to keep up with ideas that flew thick and fast. He was the head of a multinational company, which was a long succession of fairly tedious routines to maintain the momentum. He couldn't afford and didn't have the time anymore to give free rein to his creativity And then there were his sons, Jeff smiled, his beautiful, brilliant boys who were showing, as they grew everyday, their creative, ever expanding intelligence and talents. Both Scott and John were at the top of their fields in university, and scholarships were lining up for Virgil. Gordon's athletic talent was putting him on the fast track to the next Olympics, and Alan, despite a few haywire experiments, was already showing the aptitude for spatial physics and rocketry that made his father such a successful astronaut (coupled with a worrying love of speed).

Other things in his life had long since had priority for his attention. Maybe when they went on the family vacation and his sons could run wild and leave him to have a much needed break he could allow himself to dwell on the half formed visions.

Speaking of attention, his eyebrows rose slightly at the ID name on the LED display, and suddenly he felt rueful. _Here it comes_, he thought wryly. His sons would get months of amusement off that silly tribute. "Hey Scotty," Jeff answered, trying to sound more jovial than he felt in the face of oncoming barbs. "Did the boys have fun?"

"Dad, have you been watching the news?"

The strained, stressed edge in his eldest son's voice suddenly put metal dreams and budgeting straight out of Jeff's mind. His focus was suddenly razor sharp. "What? What happened? Is everyone okay?" his tone was clipped and military, but damp with worry.

"It's not us," Scott assured him from the other end. "You'd better take a look."

"Hang on," Jeff clicked a switch on his desk and a rich wood panel slid back silently to reveal his office view screen. He groped for the remote in his desk drawer.

The White House was flashing on the screen, and neon bright headlines gathered around it and the muted anchorman, his lips moving urgently and fervently. Jeff felt a sinking, cold knot form in his chest and tear down to his stomach as the words 'Terror Attack' and 'President Injured, Several Staff Dead' and especially 'Psychic's Suspected' registered. He turned up the volume, and it was no improvement.

'…_not entirely clear on the events that occurred after the group killed the agents at the outer security checkpoint, but we have information coming in that at least four people inside the Oval Office were apparent fatalities, and the President herself was taken to St Agnes of Bells Hospital, the extent of her injuries unknown. Reports are still pouring in from witnesses, several of whom allege unexplained fires and moving objects through the halls, as well as what has been called a 'mass manipulation' resulting in a mob hysteria throughout the White House. Sources within the White House refuse to substantiate any rumours concerning the attack, but a military presence has appeared within the streets of Washington, and a press release given just ten minutes ago from the White House Press Liason has confirmed that the Chiefs of Staff are on alert and are calling an emergency meeting. Experts are being cal…"_

Jeff muted the sound again, breathing hard. The phone was dangling from a limp arm. He bought it up sharply again. "Scott, where are you?" he demanded sharply.

"We're in the SUV," Scott reassured quickly. Jeff breathed out, relieved. Scott added "We got out of the museum about ten minutes ago. Alan had a vision."

Jeff cursed mentally. Alan's visions were an endless source of trauma, not just for Alan. "Is he okay?" In his minds eye he saw his tall, dark haired eldest turning in his seat for an instant to look over his blue eyed, baby faced youngest.

"He's okay. Slight headache, no shakes, no mood swings. He didn't see anything nice, though," Scott reported dutifully.

Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose. It could have been worse. "Straight home, Scott, no detours," he ordered. "Don't fuss about dinner; I'll pick something up when I leave here. I'll be home in about…" he did a rough estimate. "An hour and a half or so. I have to cancel my afternoon meeting and re-book some appointments before I can leave. Secure the house and don't answer the door or the phone." He suddenly realised that he was talking to his son like a green corporal. "I guess this kind of spoiled the day, huh?"

A soft, exasperated sigh met his rhetorical question. "The honest answer to that Dad," Scott replied heavily. "Would be 'among other things'."

Jeff blinked, nonplussed. "Something happened at the museum." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, kind of," Scott said uneasily.

"Tell me at home," Jeff decided to let him off the hook. "Call if anything happens, right? Anything," he repeated sternly.

"You got it Dad," Scott replied. "See you later."

"Okay. Be safe." And Jeff heard the dial tone.

He shook his head. The national crisis was bad enough, but he was willing to bet whatever happened at the museum concerned one or both of his youngest. Virgil and Scott both had tempers, but they both had discipline enough to keep it in check. John's anger was a rare thing indeed, and he was far too tranquil to cause a scene in public. But Gordon and Alan…

Jeff sighed. He had to be fair to his youngest sons, they _were_ young. It meant they could be impulsive and sometimes even reckless, but Jeff knew that they were good kids. The worst they had ever done were some juvenile pranks, one minor (and admittedly unintentional) lab explosion and some daydreaming in class. Their hearts were always in the right place, and they were bright enough and focused enough to put the effort in when they had to. But there were those times they showed that full maturity had yet to take a complete hold on them yet, and that's where everything went wrong.

Normally, all this would mean was a few bad decisions made, leading to maybe a bad situation, property damage, crashing the family car, or something. They weren't nice things, but they were manageable, usually the end result would be an important lesson, if nothing else.

But when your second youngest could make fire with his head and let it out through his hands or wherever he wanted, and his youngest could both sense and turn the dials on peoples emotions and reactions, which could cause anything from mass hysteria and insane rage to joyful bliss, things got complicated. Not just because their amazingly potent abilities made them so potentially dangerous, but that other people knew this and watched endlessly, judging and weighing each action and event in their lives.

There wasn't as lot of margin for error in all that.

Jeff sat back at his desk and put in a call to his secretary to send a 'cancel meeting' memo and asked her to send in his chiefs of departments. He had a feeling he'd have to be ready to take a few days leave at short notice at any time in the future when the maelstrom he sensed coming finally hit. Best to lay the groundwork for that now, since for all he knew it would be tomorrow.

He sat at his desk, cleared it of paper and leaned back, hands steepled in front of him, eyes distant. Almost automatically he reached into a desk drawer and picked up a tinkling handful of old coppers and silvers – old tarnished coins like the detritus of a piggy bank. He cast them on the desk, and they bounced and rolled across the surface. But when the time to be still should have came and passed, the coins still moved – sliding and shifting across the desk, flowing into odd shapes and patterns. It was something Jeff did to keep the outer edges of his mind occupied will he pondered.

His eyes flickered to a picture of his beautiful wife – the last he had ever taken, his sons gathered around her, little Alan in her arms. She had been a psychic too – telepathic empathy, and both Alan and John had taken after her natural intuitiveness. And then there was him, the strange kinetic and long winded gift known as metallurgiopathy – which was no great hardship for him. The ability to bend, distort, find and move anything metal was of great assistance to an engineer, especially one with no money for expensive tools when he was starting out. He'd gotten a medal in the Air Force for minutely changing the shape of a wingman's jet wings and thereby preventing his fatal crash. Of such tiny things is heroism made.

From Jeff and Lucille - his wife's - great love and regard for one another had come, in order, one telekinetic (Scotty had definitely taken after him, but his ability to move things had a wider scope – temper tantrums in the younger years took on a whole new meaning, Jeff remembered well); one telepathic (John used to have to be sedated just to sleep, the mental babble of thoughts like loud white noise. It had spurred their first long stay at the isolated Kansas farm where Jeff grew up); one patropath (a family trait for telekinesis gone sideways, making a rare gift for creating something solid out of electrified magnetised atoms and particles in the atmosphere. His mechanically minded Virgil could forge a path across water and build walls out of air, among other things); one pyrokinetic (groans all round when they had discovered that little trait – fireproofing little Gordon's room cost a mint, and he couldn't even remember how much stuff had been burnt teaching Gordon control); and one empathic clairvoyant (like his mother, Alan hadn't fit neatly into a category, having both emotion control and all three 'cognitions', pre, post and present. Jeff rather suspected the clairvoyance was a recessive trait inherited from Jeff's mother's side).

Of course these were just labels for the dominant traits, a way of categorising. All psychics had a little clairvoyance, a little extra perception and sensitivity with which to feel and see the world and its dead in slightly different ways and colours. That's what people feared so much, especially in the powerful ones – you could never really know, even with the most comprehensive testing to date, the scope of a person's spiritual abilities. Even the weakest of psychics could be a danger to a person's most private and intimate facets – that's why the heavy controls had come down; the coded tags, the official ID's and (and this one made Jeff's knuckles go white) the 'points' system to become official citizens and the _humiliating_ biyearly reviews.

It hadn't always been this way – only in the last decade had the real policing of the psychics began. It angered Jeff to no end the atmosphere of fear that his sons, particularly his two youngest, had to deal with every day. Jeff wanted better for them.

An attack like this? The fear would increase tenfold. There must be a way to make it better…

The buzzer cut through his meditation. His secretary's worried voice emerged.

"Mr Tracy?" Mrs Collen wavered uncertainly. "There's a Mr Fenill here to see you."

Fenill, Fenill…didn't ring a bell. "I'm seeing no one today except my department heads Mrs Collen," he stated firmly.

"I know, sir," the elderly but capable assistant replied. "But he insists and says he's…hey you can't…!"

The wooden doors came open and in came a young man, not much older than Scott. Dark haired and tall, he was quite handsome in an angular sort of way. He had an engaging expression, a dark suit, shiny shoes and a discreet stud in one ear.

His expression faltered slightly as he watched the coins come to rest on the polished mahogany desk, but it quickly reasserted itself. Jeff's eyes narrowed slightly – that didn't bode well. He waved back Mrs Collen, who had come after the young man, and she nodded and discretely shut the door.

"Major Tracy?" the engaging Mr Fenill asked.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. _Who else were you expecting, Mr Fenill_? "It's 'mister'," he corrected calmly but stiffly. "I haven't been a major for over a decade now."

"Sorry sir," the young man ruefully rubbed the back of his head. "I've found sometimes ex soldiers like keeping the titles." He gave a slightly nervous chuckle. His manner was boyish and his suit slightly askew.

Jeff merely sat back and looked at the young man over the steeple of his fingers for a few moments longer than comfort allowed, which always disconcerted his sons and certainly seemed to be working on Mr Fenill. "Was there any particular reason you felt the need to barge into my office, Mr Fenill, or do you make a habit of such an invasion?"

"Uh…yes, sir. I mean no, sir," Mr Fenill stuttered, and Jeff managed to convey how very patiently he was waiting with a mere shift in posture. "It was very important I spoke to you, sir."

Jeff said nothing. He would add no prompts to the conversation; give the man no clue to his thoughts.

"Uh, actually…I'm from the Psychic Regulatory Agency," here Mr Fenill flashed a warrant card and badge. There was an awkward pause, but Mr Fenill was learning he was getting no help from the other half of the conversation. "And since this attack on the White House this afternoon we've pulled every agent on to double duty to check on registered psychics, make sure they need no extra protection, counselling, anything like that. I understand two of your sons," here Jeff's eyes narrowed in a chilly way "have high-sensitivity gifts that may require assistance…"

Alright, this little charade had gone on long enough. "My sons and I," Jeff cut in coldly. "No longer have any dealings with the PRA, aside from what is required by law. I have no desire to do otherwise, Mr Fenill."

"Sir, I really urge you to reconsider," Mr Fenill said fervently. "People are getting very antsy about gifted people following this tragedy and…"

"Shoes," Jeff cut in abruptly.

Rendered unbalanced by this non sequiter, Mr Fenill gaped. "What?"

"Shoes," Jeff repeated flatly. "Most people look at faces, Mr Fenill, but I'm more interested in foundations, so I look at shoes. Yours are buffed to a mirror. It's now almost evening, and I have to ask myself what kind of man buffs his shoes after a long day full of crises. The sort of thing a rookie would do to impress whomever he was going to meet, maybe. But then I noticed the worn belt leather, the second gun you carry, the fact you're wearing a lot more metal than regulations allow in your job. Metal tie pin, metal bracelet, metal buckles, metal buttons. Too much metal Mr Fenill. To put me at ease? Let me know that I can pick you up and toss you across the room if I wish? Or to conceal something that _should_ be metal?"

"I…Mr Tracy…?" the young Mr Fenill seemed completely taken aback, but Jeff was watching his eyes.

"You don't move like a rookie." Abruptly Mr Fenill was dragged forward, pulled by a magnet, where Jeff could get him by the lapels. Jeff tilted his head to the side of Mr Fenill's, and bought his face closer to Mr Fenill's ear stud.

"Clever," he said eventually. "Very clever, Henry," he appeared to be speaking into the stud of the stunned and immobilised Mr Fenill. "I mean, all the metal to conceal the stud, which was plastic to hide the currents into the camera and microphone. But you couldn't keep metal out of the wiring, could you?" he peeked around the edge of Mr Fenill's ear, where the flesh toned wire ran nearly invisible to the eye. "And then there was young Mr Fenill. That was good, trying to engender my sympathy by making him out to be an inexperienced rookie, even down to the mis-tied tie and the nervously buffed shoes. And making him look like my son," Jeff's smile was acid and predatory. "That was _artful_. You should have made him change his belt though; the wear marks from the ID clip are distinctive. The only PRA's who wear ID clips on a daily basis are the higher ups – the powerful, classified agents." Mr Fenill was suddenly very still. "Good grief, Henry," Jeff shook his head, cold rage and disbelief in his tone. "You must think I'm _stupid_! As if I wouldn't know the inner workings of your agency well enough to spot the signs. And as if," he bared his teeth "you would send a rookie to see Jeff Tracy, high on your Agency's hot list? _I told you four years ago,_" Jeff said to the unseen people at the other end of the camera in a tone of such cutting steel that Mr Fenill flinched. "_that the PRA had no more right to my family's lives. Seek to undo this and I. Will. Bury. You. I will shake the world to see you fall. Is that clear!_"

He let Mr Fenill go, and the man sprang lithely out of range. There was nothing uncertain about his movements now.

"I'd advise you to reconsider your position, Mr Tracy," the newly formed Mr Fenill said coldly. Clearly he did not like being caught out. "The world is changing."

"I'd advise you stay well out of my affairs, Mr Fenill," Jeff replied equitably. "I'm not given to mercy, particularly when my family is involved. You get one warning, then you get to see if you can best me. Consider this experience your warning, Mr Fenill."

Security arrived at the door, called by Jeff's silent alarm which he'd pressed halfway into the meeting. They were all good, solid, well trained men, loyal to their company.

"Escort Mr Fenill out, please," Jeff ordered imperiously for Mr Fenill's sake. "And I'll have to talk to you about new security measures when you get back, Randall."

"Yes sir!" the bear-like man called Randall snapped off a precise salute. The man was ex-military, and had hit bad times out of the army until his friend Jeff had tracked him down and had found him a place to put his skills and not inconsiderable talents to good use. He was fiercely loyal to Jeff and his family, and considered himself their bodyguard.

Mr Fenill was taken away.

Jeff sat back at his desk, disconsolately pushing around a coin with one finger. They certainly didn't let grass grow under their feet, did they? he mused bitterly.

Suddenly he got to his feet. Screw the departmental chiefs, screw the preparations. He needed to see his sons.

-----------------------------------------

The man known as Mr Fenill was forcibly ejected from the building, and he could feel eyes watching him as he moved away through the plaza and across the street. He briefly glanced up at the top of the massive skyscraper and his lips tightened, vexed.

He got into the dark car parked on the rapidly darkening street. The building behind him was a black spire against magnificent ochre, reds and purples of the fading sun. They pulled away, and Mr Fenill turned to face the other occupant of the car, who was called 'Henry', among other names.

"I see Jeff's mind is still as sharp as it ever was," Henry said. The driver and the other man in the passenger seat nodded.

"He saw right through me," Mr Fenill muttered irritably. "You might have said he had some clairvoyance."

"Hah! He has no such thing! He's just used to the politics of the game, that's all. He knows how people think, which can be far more useful than actually divining thought."

"What shall we do?" Mr Fenill asked.

Henry responded with a shrug. "If he won't submit voluntarily what else can we do? The man has had us tied up in legal knots for years now. I'll say this much for him, he knows how to do whatever he does thoroughly. There's no binding way to catch him, not as long as he toes the line. He too _powerful_ a man!" Henry threw up his arms.

"How did that happen, anyway?"

Henry shrugged. "Some talents are difficult to play down. We couldn't hold him back, not with the commendations from the Air Force and their personnel's support behind him." Henry sat in the quietly moving car, lost in thought. "Yes, I think we're going to have to rearrange matters to suit. Put our second option into play, will you?"

"Yes sir. Do you really think they were involved?" Mr Fenill asked.

"That, Mr Fenill," Henry said, giving him a look. "Doesn't matter in the slightest."

--------------------------------------

The black SUV pulled into a quiet, stately, tree-lined street, headlights cutting through the darkness. Night had fallen, and the streets were deserted.

Almost deserted. Scott's eyes narrowed as he watched a scruffy and capped figure nailing things to the high wood gate and stone wall of their simple, stone and wood panelled two storey house. He cursed.

The others all looked up to see what had gotten his attention. Virgil was sitting in the passenger seat, the other three were in the back, hovering over Alan, who was still pale and constantly rubbing his temples.

"Oh you've gotta be kidding me!" Gordon snarled.

"Alright, everyone relax," John replied as the car pulled up to the driveway. "I think we've enough stress and violence for one day."

The figure turned and ran as the headlights hit him, leaving a bundle of white paper sheets behind him. Scott unstrapped himself and moved to follow, but Virgil was quicker.

"I'll go," he said as he jumped from the passenger's side and shot after the sprinting figure, nodding at Scott's 'be careful'.

The scrawny, rumpled figure had a good head start, but Virgil was a fast runner and he had a pretty cool skill which had ensured his younger brothers never got very far when they had run away from him in their childhood.

Ahead of the figure a rippling haze appeared, and he smacked into it hard, spending him sprawling backwards.

Virgil groaned and staggered as heavy pressure was slammed on his brain, making his ears ring. He still had enough momentum to catch up to the downed sprinter, however. He shook his head, trying to clear the aching dizziness as he lunged for the dazed but still trying to escape figure.

Any high school physics teacher could tell you the fundamental rules of the universe – for every action, an equal and opposite reaction. This means something thrown with certain force will fly to the limit of that force. Something hits something else and whatever it hits will feel the same exact impact. Just because you're psychic doesn't mean you get out of physics. The fact that the reaction occurred inside their heads, stirring up brain and body chemistry, rattling bones and brain matter, causing irregular functions, didn't mean it wasn't a reaction. A psychic wasn't an omni-cognizant, untouchable force. They were a mine field of physical, emotional, mental and physiological problems bought on when they used their gifts.

More paper fell out of the guys hands as Virgil hauled him upright, and the words 'Innocent Citizens Beware! Espers Live Here! Your Thoughts Are No Longer Yours! Inform the Authorities! You Need Not LIVE IN FEAR!' flashed before the middle Tracy's eyes.

"What the _hell _do you think your doing?" Virgil growled right in the guy's face. He catalogued it for future reference. Skinny, slightly weedy, pointed chin, lank, dirty blonde hair, dull grey eyes and a malicious expression. He was just a face, one that Virgil had seen before. You saw these kinds of faces around, usually at the back of a protest rally or in one of those 'privacy protection' groups that littered the cities. They weren't the front men, the poster children, the leaders of the pack – they were the followers, the 'yes' men, the mob; unoriginal and unimaginative, but vicious and malicious, experts on bullying and mindless prejudice and sustained low-grade paranoia.

"I've got you!" the guy yelled. "I've got you now you stinkin' espie! That was an unwarranted use of psychic power! I got you for attempted murder!"

"_Unwarranted_?" Virgil snapped back. Then he took a deep breath, eyes slightly unfocused. "Act Three, Sub Section One on the Miles-Keye Amendment states that a psychic may use their gifts in defence of their own lives or in defence of another's, or in order to prevent a crime in progress. These," he thrust the dirty white pages in the guy's face. "Constitute slander, trespass and a breach of privacy with intent to cause harm – which is a jailable offence." The hate-monger gaped at him from in between lank strands of hair. Virgil gave him a thin, tight lipped smile. "Don't talk to me about the laws, I know them chapter and verse!"

The man squirmed in Virgil's uncompromising grip, spidery hands trying to prise Virgil's off his shirt. "Don't matter. They won't charge me with anything on the word of you freaks. People have a right to know what they're living next to! They have a right to be safe!"

"_So do we_!" Virgil hissed, enraged by then man's unthinking racism. His anger welled up nauseatingly. "Listen buddy, I've had a long day! I just got home from half a dozen security checks. I'm tired, I'm hungry, my brothers are worried and upset and at the end of all that we still have to deal with an idiotic jerk like you! And you have the gall to stand there after vandalising _our_ home with this filth and act like we're the criminals! Maybe I should have gone in for murder! Removing crap like you from the gene pool could be considered a national service!"

Blood had splattered across the lanky mans disgusted face, and Virgil realised his sinuses must have been rattled by what he had done, blood free flowing from his nose and across his mouth. He must have looked completely insane, judging by the sudden look of fear on the rodent-like visage in front of him. He thrust the man aside and down onto the pavement. "Get the hell out of here! I've seen your face and I'm sure my brothers will have taken photos, and like it or not we can have you arrested _and_ sued! If I _ever_ see you anywhere near this place _or_ my family again you will regret it until your dying day. There's no limit of perfectly legal ways we can tear you down." Virgil's voice was stony.

"Showing your true colours there, psycho!"

Virgil moved toward him so abruptly that the man back-pedalled along the pavement on his behind. "Psycho. Like crazy, right? You really wanna see how far I'll let you push it? You _really _want to find out just what we _could_ do to you if we weren't nice, law abiding, decent people? I'm not surprised you didn't notice that, you've probably never met one in your life, certainly not in the mirror. You want to?"

The man flinched at the look on Virgil's face and hurriedly scrambled up and away from the enraged young man. The sound of his running feet echoed like an end note to a musical score, fading with the climax of emotion.

Breathing hard, Virgil took a look at his shaking hands, and then down at the white papers resting quietly on the ground. _Of all the_…his thoughts trailed off, angry and bewildered. Virgil understood machines, he understood music, he understood art. His deeply complex mind was able to deconstruct the most intricate of mechanisms, sift through the meanings of the most multifaceted artworks and the composition of the most involved musical scores. But he didn't understand the all encompassing hatred people carried through their lives, and that always upset him deeply.

Huffing resignedly, he bent and retrieved the papers from the ground – no need to leave garbage messing up the street. He crumpled the pages in his fists and trod gloomily back down the street. He'd better get home before Scott came looking.

Just as he pulled up to the familiar wooden gates, a set of headlights illuminated them. Virgil tensed until he noticed the sleek lines of his father's blue Porsche past the high beams, and the familiar TRACY2 number plate.

The flashy car pulled up right next to Virgil and the door opened. "Virgil?" Jeff Tracy emerged from the dark of the car. Suddenly the lights mounted on the gate posts were turned on, illuminating the driveway and the car in a pool of light. "Virgil, your face! What happened?" Jeff Tracy was quickly in front of his middle son, checking the damage.

"It's okay Dad," Virgil assured him as Jeff gently checked him over and sponged the blood away with his own handkerchief. "I barriered some idiot who was hanging that privacy junkie rubbish on our front gate. Guess I should've just tripped him."

"Guess you should have," his father agreed, raising an eyebrow in mild remonstrance. Jeff didn't approve of using their gifts at all, except where unavoidable. He looked the gate.

Virgil did too. It was free of paper and tape – though scraps littered the ground here and there. Virgil grinned – that was big brother Scott in action. He'd probably torn them all down in one go. "He won't be back, Dad – I told him he'd get arrested."

Jeff waved him off. "Next time just let him go – they always get worse when you tell them things like that. They see it as some sort of challenge." He snorted over the flyers he'd taken from Virgil's hands when he'd finished with the face. "Same old, same old. How's the head?"

"Aching," Virgil admitted, and Jeff shrugged in a 'well, that'll learn you' kind of way.

"Come on," Jeff put an arm around Virgil's shoulders and steered him towards the car. "I'll give you a ride to the porch, and you can help carry in the stuff."

Curious, Virgil looked at the back seat. He grinned eagerly, headache nearly forgotten in the face of adolescent starvation. "Cool, pizza!"

Jeff smiled.

-----------------------------------

It was ten minutes later, and Gordon and Alan were lined up before Jeff in his home study, staring at the carpet. Jeff was rubbing his forehead, and Scott had positioned himself well off to the side, perched on the armrest of the room's leather couch.

"I don't believe this," Jeff said in disbelief. "How _many _times have I told you about using your gifts in public? How much could I possibly have to drill it into to you?"

"But…"

"Gordon, no excuses!" Jeff interrupted sharply. "Boys, _look_ at me!"

Reluctantly, both of them did. Like Scott, Jeff's disappointment was what hit them, not his anger. That was the intention.

"Do I really have to tell you how stupid and immature you acted? Now? After what happened today in Washington? Do you really not see the kind of damage you did, the kind of danger your put yourself in?"

"No one remembered, though. I made them uncertain and John…" Alan tried.

"John can't steal memories, Alan – and the fact that you would rely on it if he did is nothing to be proud of, or grateful for." Jeff's voice made Alan flinch again, and take a step back. "This _cannot happen_. In other countries you could be stoned or shot or hanged for what you did today. Do you really think America is that far ahead? It's not, trust me. They'll keep you alive, and they'll use you, hurt you, and then throw you aside. You had dumb luck on your side this time, you won't have it again. And if you really get caught, there may not be much I can do for you – remember that. A crime is a crime, no matter the reasons. There are no excuses you can give me that would make it different." Jeff sat back and let his youngest stew over that for a minute or two. "I raised you both," he continued. "And I know you have the ability to make better choices than this. That makes it all the more absurd. And wrong." Jeff stood, looking over at his stoop shouldered sons. Scott was in the corner, trying not to fidget. It was odd, but while Jeff was certain Scott had ripped them a new one at the museum, now when it came time for them to be punished his protective instinct suddenly emerged. Jeff wasn't a fool – he knew how hurt his sons were by such disappointment and resignation in his tone but they had to learn, and they had to learn fast – the PRA didn't grant second chances, and losing any one of his sons to them was one of Jeff's greatest nightmares. "Both of you are grounded for the next week – and believe me, considering the fact that you'd be in jail now if you'd been caught, that is a gift. You're on wood-chopping duty," groans from his sons, "and when I say grounded and mean the whole thing. No sports, no solar car club, no swim team, no video games, tv, phones, or friends. You do chores before school, you go to school, you come home, do your homework, and then you chop wood for the wood shed until its time to come in. And I expect your room to be spotless, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Jeff finished sternly. "Perhaps the lack of distractions will help you reflect on actions and help you with future choices." He gave them one more stern look, just to drive the message home.

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. "Scott said you had one of your flashes at the museum, Alan."

The atmosphere relaxed slightly. "Yes sir," Alan looked back up at his Dad.

"Do you remember what you saw, exactly?" Jeff questioned gently. He knew he had to be careful – Alan's visions could give grown men nightmares.

"Well…" Alan paused to organise his thoughts. "There was the White House – I didn't actually see it but I knew that's where it was. And lots of people screaming, lots of people, really scared…and there was…" Alan's blue eyes were slightly unfocused. "Gunfire…and blood, and I think their names were Henry…or Hank, or Harry….and Natalie or Natasha, and Cyril – his was clear because he hated it…and…Red…Red, I think, and another one Chai or Tai, and she's dying…and," Alan bit his lip. "And everyone was screaming and there were these words across the walls 'Free Psychics', 'Free Psychics' and…" his eyes narrowed. "And…then everything swung around, and I was seeing different things – crowds of people with fire…and army guys _everywhere_ and they were all hunting, looking for something…and…and a train." Alan finished. He was rubbing his temples again – the headache had come back.

Jeff had come around his desk to stand before his son, and he gently reached out to ruffle the blonde locks. "It's okay Alan," he soothed. "That's enough." He hated it when his son witnessed people dying.

Scott had come closer too. "A train?" he mused, almost to himself. "Why a train?"

"I didn't actually see it," Alan clarified. "I heard it in the background. I don't know what kind of train it was, I just heard the sound of it, all the time." Alan sounded frustrated. "There were other things, I think, but they slipped by."

"Never mind," Jeff replied. He gave his son a playful noogie. "It's never a complete picture, we all know that. How's your head?"

"Better now," Alan smiled tentatively, and Jeff smiled back.

"Good. Go get some dinner before it gets cold, all of you," was Jeff's advice.

Jeff turned to straighten his desk as his sons moved out of the room, and blinked when he realised one had come back. He turned to face his red headed fire maker.

"You know I don't compromise on punishments, Gordon," he said quietly. He knew the lack of swim team practice would be a hardship for his son – for one thing, the schools coach was a bit of a fanatic and wouldn't let him get away with it, so Gordon would have to give up his lunchtimes as well - but Jeff wouldn't be moved.

"It's not that," Gordon shook his head. "About the museum…I know it was a stupid thing to do. I knew it then too. But when that guy knocked Alan down and everyone just let him do it…I just reacted. I know it was wrong, but I'm still not sorry. No one looks out for us, not even the guys who make the rules. We have to take care of ourselves."

Jeff sighed. "You'll notice I never asked for an apology, Gordon. I don't need you to be sorry. I _do_ need you to understand that there are consequences for every action, even things which seem righteous and worthwhile. The world isn't going to give you the benefit of the doubt, son. Not you. It is unfair, I know, but there you are. You're going to have to live with it, just like all the rest of us." He gave his son a slight, wry smile, and got a ghost of one back. "Go on, get something to eat, I know what your appetite's like. And Gordon?" he called after Gordon as the teenager headed for the door, and watched the boy turn. "I do appreciate your honesty."

"Right, Dad."

And then he was gone.

Jeff took a moment to breathe. Hard bits done, crisis averted. He was a little angry with his sons, but not all that much. It was already fading away. Partly because this kind of thing rarely happened and could be much worse than it was, but mostly because Gordon made an unfortunately valid point – they lived in a world where psychics were punished severely for tiny slips, but were never ever rewarded for playing by the rules. The life of a registered psychic was one comparable to a fugitive or a paedophile – always watched, never trusted, never given a chance. In the face of such injustice it was hard work trying to teach his sons that breaking the rules was a bad thing to do.

They didn't do to badly, all things considered.

Suddenly Jeff sat up straight. He'd left his sons – his growing teenage and young adult boys - _alone_ in the dining room with access to all the food he'd bought home….

"Boys!" He yelled with a sudden urgency. "There had better be some Italian Chicken left!"

He was not encouraged by the "Uh-oh, you're in trouble now Scott!"

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End Part II


	3. The Eccentric Mr Hackenbacker

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds is owned by Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. This is a non-profit experiment in creativity.

Warnings: Mild bad language and adult themes. There are some disturbing conditions described in this chapter.

Authors Notes: Another big and warm thank you to all my reviewers for your kind remarks and critiques.

A few of you have remarked that this is like the X-Men 2 movie. When I looked back over it I thought 'Wow! This _is_ a lot like that movie!' but that really wasn't my intention. It can't be denied it touches on a lot of similar themes. I like to think they're more universal than just X-2 though (grin).

I'm a little ambivalent about this chapter – it turned out different than I intended it to be. It's the longest yet, but there's almost no action in it. It mostly centres round Jeff, and the plot beginning to thicken around the boys. But, not to worry! I've got the next chapter all planned out, and there lots of action and gratuitous power-use in it.

You'll notice I've decided to use Fermat's character, again in line with the movie-verse. I needed him to introduce the device that will play a role in the coming chapters, and he was too cute not to use.

Just for the record, I'm not a neurologist or an engineer! The explanations within are completely made up from plausible sounding words that are probably completely off the mark. Chalk it up to this being a work of science fiction, if you please.

Again, please read and review. Please.

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Part III – The Eccentric Mr Hackenbacker

_In which there is – A Conversation with John – 'Stay Close to Home' – A Call from Grandma – Lady Penelope's Assistance – The Eccentric Mr Hackenbacker – the Device – 'What do you need?' – 'What could go wrong?' – Enemies Gather_

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Jeff shuffled through the last of the paperwork – it was well past midnight now, and he had decided to make a start on the leave preparations he'd wanted to do back at the office, since he was too worried and keyed up to sleep.

His sons were in bed – since grounding was immediate in this household, Gordon had Alan had wisely decided to make a start on cleaning their room after dinner. Jeff had shuffled them off to sleep early, since they had school tomorrow, but allowed them an hour or so for clandestine 'lights on' in their room to chat. He knew he couldn't be completely rigid with them, especially since they had so forthrightly accepted their punishment.

Scott, John and Virgil hadn't lasted much longer – it had been a long day, Virgil still had a headache and the evening news had been depressing. Protests were already congealing around the White House and pro-psychic organisations around the country, and the authorities were struggling to keep order on the streets. Psychics had been advised to take care, which had been a further, sour note.

When Jeff had suggested rest, they had willingly taken it and had trudged off to their own room, which they all shared. Scott had re-emerged briefly to apologise for the museum, which Jeff had been expecting. Sometimes Scott had a habit of over-owning responsibility. Jeff didn't think he should be blamed for optimism. Jeff would have made the same decision to let them go off together had he been there, and he told Scott as much. Before going off the bed, his eldest had given him an unexpected embrace, something which he hadn't done in years. It was indicative of just how much the whole situation scared his son, even though Scott would never say it.

He was glad his sons still felt comfortable enough to hug their Dad, even past childhood. He was lucky in that regard – psychics 101 said that all gifted children needed to be touched – hugged, cuddled and reassured. Touch was the least of the psychic senses, the sense most grounded in the physical reality, and that was a vital fact recognised by parapsychologists around the country. It meant that something as simple as a touch could ground a psychic lost in their extra senses, give them focus and balance, keep them calm and controlled. He couldn't remember how many times he'd shared his bed with his wife cuddling one or more of his sons, especially John who could lose touch with reality so quickly under the flood of thoughts around him. Alan too, though Alan had gone more to Scott and John, because Jeff's feelings had been so fragile immediately after Lucille was killed.

Others on the outside often spotted it, but his boys rarely realised how touchy-feely they were – forever slinging arms across shoulders, noogie-ing, punching and knuckling each other in a macho, teenage male sort of way. They had shared rooms long past the age where they should have their own, which was a safety measure – Alan's visions could literally damage his mind if not properly handled, Gordon often surfed a thin line between diabetes and hypoglycaemia as well as other metabolic concerns, Virgil had migraines and bone fractures, John's brain chemistry could swing like a bipolar sufferer, and Scott often suffered from non-impact concussions and muscle spasms; and all of that was just the tip of the iceberg. They all needed to keep an eye on each other to ward off the dangers of the plethora of side effects of their gifts.

Of course this closeness and the constant need for tactile stimulation that psychics suffered had negative connotations. People often associated it with sexual deviance; 'ghost rape' was the new buzz word floating around for it. Which was patently ridiculous, because of the _other_ negative side effect of being gifted - which was that gifts were strongly intertwined with emotional centres. It meant that while touch was necessary for a psychic, too much touching, intimate or emotional interaction and…well, to put in nicely, all associated activities could lead to a massive lack of control and wild, rogue usages of power – which made the path into adulthood a _lot_ more thorny. Psychic powers could be handed down through families, but very rarely was it handed directly – psychics didn't tend to be able to have children, and often didn't marry – they were too volatile a health risk. When they did, there was usually not much chance that the children would show talents – it was a complex mix of aptitude and genetics that made for psychic potential. That's what made the Tracy family so rare, and in many ways it was the reason they were so well adjusted.

There was a familiar beep from the microwave. Jeff looked up – there was movement in the kitchen; soft, slippered footfalls across the wood and slight bumps of cupboards opening and closing. Jeff headed down the corridor and towards the dim light emerging from the room.

He had vaguely expected Scott because his eldest son was famous for pacing the halls at odd hours, checking his brothers or going over flight manuals in his head when he couldn't sleep – he'd memorised the manuals and instructions for the family jet by the time he was fourteen, and Jeff taught him to fly it at fifteen because he thought it was best to get in early before his fly-boy son tried it on his own.

But it was his blonde stargazer John who was padding around, hair mussed up, wearing an old threadbare blue dressing gown that once belonged to Jeff – it hung off him, since he had his father's height but his mother's lithe, wiry build, but no amount of coaxing, hinting or yearly gifts of gowns from his Grandmother would induce him to part with it. He appeared to be searching through the cupboards for something, blearily focusing on each shelf. A mug of something warm steamed on the counter.

Amused, Jeff spied the sugar bowl on the kitchen table, and moved in to scoop it up and hold it in front of his son's semi-awake face.

John blinked at the glazed ceramic pot, and then jumped as he realised someone was holding it up. "Geez, Dad," John shook his head to clear it. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

Jeff raised a sardonic eyebrow. "In this house Johnny? I take the rare opportunity to do so."

John's warm chuckle filled the room. He tipped a generous amount of sugar into his mug.

"That's not coffee is it?" Jeff asked, concerned. His son needed sleep.

"Cocoa," John replied. "Want some?"

"I won't say no."

They adjourned to the kitchen table, mugs in hand, dim stove light making the clay tiled and cream painted room a warm, quiet sanctuary.

"Can't sleep?" Jeff asked softly.

"Everyone is thinking about it," John grimaced. "So I'm thinking about it."

"If you need help sleeping…" Jeff offered.

John flipped a long fingered hand through the air. "No, I don't need any pills. I hate those things. Besides its not overwhelming, it's just…annoying. Everyone in the neighbourhood is thinking the same thing, it makes the thoughts loud. I've slept through worse. I went in to check on Alan and he's already curled up with Gordon, so he must be getting some emotional input too."

Jeff felt the beginnings of a headache. "Perhaps it would be best if you all went to stay with Grandma for a few weeks."

"Dad, no!" John protested vehemently. "It's only the first day, it's not that bad! And what about school!"

"Alright, alright," Jeff held up a hand. "It's just a suggestion so far. But that's exactly my point, Johnny. Its day one and already the signs are showing. As capable as you are John, I'm not going to wait until you're falling over from exhaustion and Alan's suffering from chronic stress before I take some action. It may not be safe to stay here anymore in any case. I'd be a lot happier if I knew you boys were well out of it."

John took another sip. "That's not fair, Dad. Scott's legally an adult and I'm nearly there, and we're all going to have to learn to deal with the bad things some time. I don't think hiding is going to help."

"Not hiding," Jeff shook his head. "But finding a safe sanctuary where you can live free of this mess for a time. That's important, John. Plenty of psychics don't make it to thirty without being institutionalised for chronic mental conditions. You need some sort of clear space, where you can think and learn and live without all these mental pressures and hatred. Don't tell me it doesn't get to you; it gets to me every day."

John couldn't find an answer to that, so he tried a compromise. "Don't be too hasty, Dad, please. Summer vacation's coming up in less than a month – we can wait it out for a couple of weeks, surely?"

"I don't want to try it and find out that I'm wrong, John. Not with you all. I'm not certain you can hold out, not after what happened at the museum today…"

"That was a one-off. Gordon and Alan don't instigate these things," John defended fairly.

"It won't matter to the PRA if they do or they don't, son," Jeff said heavily. "And I don't want to take any risks, not with the PRA." Jeff put his head in his hands wearily. "Scott, Virgil and you never caused this much trouble."

"Virgil's had his moments," John smiled slightly. "I just wasn't the type. And Scott never got the chance to develop his more childish side." John realised what he had just said with dismay. "I didn't mean…"

"Its okay," Jeff patted John's hand. "I know what you meant. I kind of relied of Scott a lot during those years, didn't I? I just wasn't up for the domestics of it all after she died." Jeff's smile was oddly sad and regretful.

"Dad, you make it sound like you abandoned us!" John sent his father a reproving look for his gloomy self-assessment. "You did a great job raising us alone. You never let us down, not ever, not where it counted. Scott took on a lot of new roles but Scott is kind of like that, he's good at the whole commander-in-chief thing. Besides, you're allowed to grieve – how many times did you tell us that?"

"Point taken," Jeff nodded, smiling at his son. "Fair enough. But I still have the problem of whether or not you can all handle this. Gordon and Alan…"

"Are not Scott, Virgil or I," John cut in firmly. "And while they may not always get it right, they're always trying, Dad. You've got to give them the chance to prove themselves sometime."

"Alright, alright, I give up!" Jeff raised his mug in salute. "You win. You can all stick around and drive each other nuts if that's what you want." Jeff's face split into a proud grin. "When did you get so smart, anyway?"

John smiled back shyly. "Someone had to take after mom." His face changed into a cheeky smirk.  
"Watch it young man," Jeff mock-growled. "Or Gordon and Alan will have an assistant in the woodshed."

John laughed.

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Jeff had just enough time for a brief conference with his three oldest while his two youngest were doing the breakfast dishes the next morning. He hadn't really been planning it, but sometime in the night, tossing and turning, he had decided to strike while the iron was hot.

He shut the door of the study after Virgil sidled in, third coffee still clutched in his hand like a lifesaving elixir. He saw John and Scott watching their brother, amused.

"Hey Virgil?"

"Hmm?"

"Count my fingers," Scott held up three digits in front of Virgil's face as he flopped next to them on the couch.

"Count mine," Virgil growled belligerently, holding up only one. He gulped down another mouthful of coffee, blinking heavily.

"All right, knock it off you lot," Jeff called them to order. "I have some ground to cover and not much time, and I don't need any morning grouches." Jeff was pleased to see his sons sit up straighter. "Right. Now, I'm sure I don't need to tell you the state of the nation after last night, do I? There are going to a lot of angry, frightened people out there today, and in the end it won't matter that you've never done anything to them. I need you boys to understand that there will be some changes to be made in the next few weeks."

"Shouldn't Alan and Gordon hear this?" John asked, startled.

"The last thing I need right now is to turn up the pressure dial on them right now. Between their exams and their still surging gifts, any more stressors could wipe their control – we don't need another public display, especially not now. Wood-chopping duty will keep them close to home and out of trouble for a little while, that'll do for now."

Jeff perched on his desk and looked over his tall, matured sons, all athletic, well built and fit. You'd never guess the kind of health risks they faced every day.

"I need you boys to stick close to home for the next few days. No going out on the weekends, or anything like that – Scott, I know I have no real standing to order you around any more, but I'd like to think you can see the necessity."

Scott nodded. "Right, Father."

Jeff nodded back. "Right. I'd also be happier if none of you went out alone – anywhere, not even to the corner store. And watch yourselves at Garstone too. I'm going to the safe deposit boxes today to pick up the chains. I want you to wear them wherever you go – that way I'll always know where you are. And I'm going to organise some check-in times and evacuation procedures."

"Evacuation?" Virgil echoed, eyebrows up.

"Virgil, this isn't a game," Jeff replied sternly. "I've seen situations like this before; some people only need half an excuse to get violent, and they'll be coming after us. I'd rather overdo this than underestimate how bad it will get."

"I got it, Dad," Virgil held up a hand, convinced.

"Just so long as you do son," Jeff replied. "I'm going to be relying on you all to look out for one another and for your younger brothers as well. If worst comes to worst, you may have to know what to do if I can't reach you. When I've sorted everything out and worked out a few plans, I expect you to know the procedures and to make sure your brothers follow them too. I have a feeling I might be taking long hours in the near future so I can forward my annual leave as much as possible. We've all got to pull together on this, boys. We stick together and act sensible and we'll get through this."

"We know Dad," Scott answered him. "You can count on us. Are we going to Grandma's?"

"Well, I thought about it," Jeff winked at John, who smiled. "But I was convinced to let thing lie, at least for now."

Both Scott and Virgil, on either side of John, ruffled his hair and slapped his back. Virgil added a 'woo, way to go Johnny!'.

Scott looked pensive. "Dad, not that I don't appreciate the chance to stick it out, but maybe we _should_ send Gordon and Alan there after exams – or before, if it gets bad."

"Do _you_ want to try to convince them to go?" John looked amused. "All I'll say is 'good luck'."

"They should be out of this," Scott stuck to his guns.

"Let's face it, they'll never go. They can be brilliant when it comes avoiding things they don't want to do," Virgil shrugged, chuckling.

"It won't matter what they want once they're there," Scott argued. "Grandma will keep them in line."

"I thought about it, Scott," Jeff cut in. "I really did. But I think its best if we all stay together on this – both of them might need the support only we can give. There shouldn't be any necessity to send them away, not if we're all pragmatic." Jeff sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Alan and Gordon sounded like they were finishing up. "Well, that's about it, boys. Stay alert, stay together and be smart. We'll get through it, I know we can."

His boys all smirked, eyes alight with the joy of a challenge.

"Absolutely!"

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"_Jefferson Josiah Tracy!_"

He knew that tone. Oh God, did he ever know that tone. It was a power all of its own – whoever it was turned on had the terrible experience of being rendered, not only seven years old again, but a seven year old caught elbow deep in cookie jar.

"_Of all the absurd, disrespectful things you've done to me! It's the **wooden spoon**__for you when I get you in my reach, young man!_"

"Really, Mother," Jeff attempted weakly. "I was planning to call…"

"Planning? _Planning?_" the seemingly frail Mrs Tracy repeated, face crimson with molten Kansas vitriol. Jeff shifted uncomfortably in his office chair while Grandma's face flayed him from his office view screen seven feet away. "Lords a goshin', boy, all the planning of the world comes to the weight of an empty sack if you don't actually _do_ anything!" She glared at him over the video image, brown eyes no less destructive than they were in person. "Imagine me having to find out from _Elmer Ghaddon_ (that silly man), that my son and grandsons were about to be hunted down, staked and burnt…"

"Now that's just ridiculous, Mother," Jeff found his voice again. "It's not anything like that!"

"Oh really?" Mrs Tracy's eyebrows rose, and Jeff felt all his sins laid out to bear for her scrutiny. "Is that why they're talking about riots in Washington?"

"Er…well…"

It had been noted before by Scott that the Tracy boys rarely saw their parent squirm. But if you ever wanted a sure-fire way to do it, then Grandma Tracy, undisputed matriarch of every Tracy on the mountains and plains, was the key ingredient. All the silver tongued suave and firm leadership was so much ice in the fire under the tyranny of Grandma, because it's just impossible to take a firm, dominant tone with someone who has seen you bake mud pies and talk to cows.

Jeff took a deep breath. Whatever happened, she couldn't get him with the spoon through the vid-phone. Probably.

"We're all fine, Mother," he assured her. "The boys spent the night at home and I left early to be with them."

Mrs Tracy gave him a look that would put microscopes to shame, and appeared to accept the answer. "Well, at the very least you've started spending more time with the boys," she allowed grudgingly. Her tone switched to concern – her grandsons were the apples of her eye. "How _are_ they, Jefferson? And don't give that 'fine' nonsense!"

Jeff shrugged eloquently. "Scott's more uncertain than I've ever seen him. John's coping, but the stress is telling. Virgil's controlling himself. Gordon's frustrated, and Alan is worried."

"And you?"

"A little bit of each, I think," Jeff's smile was weary.

"Jefferson," Mrs Tracy looked a bit more sympathetic. "You know the boys are welcome to come and stay. I was so anxious last night that I actually started cleaning out the bunk rooms."

Jeff gave her a lopsided smile. "You've seen us coming?"

"No. That's why I was so upset. You _should_ really, Jefferson." Grandma Tracy fairly quivered with utter certainly. "But…no, I haven't seen you coming at all. You're not, are you?"

Grandma Tracy's Nauscopy was usually quite accurate – over sixty years of experience with the low grade clairvoyance had given her uncanny expertise. Nauscopy was a weak and not well known ability for knowing when things were arriving – be it people, ships, trucks or storms. It wasn't a potent talent – it was really nothing more than an extra sensitive intuition - and it came with no exceptional health risks, but it was a useful gift in the farmlands, where people needed certainties with regard to supply lines and climate in order to get the best crops. Grandma Tracy was the weather witch of her region – farmers called in from miles around to check what Grandma was seeing coming.

"Not for now, no. I've always thought that the boys need as normal a life as I can give them. Running because we're different would undo all of that," Jeff shook his head. "It might seem a bit risky, but I think the damage done by disrupting our whole lives over this would be far worse." Jeff sat back on his chair, idly running a hand through his hair.

"John been talking to you again?"

The woman didn't miss a trick.

"Yes," Jeff admitted wryly. "But the more I think it over, the more right his ideas seem. I can't ask them to just drop everything and run. I don't want them to think they're guilty. You know I never allowed them to view these powers as a curse or an oddity."

"I know you do, Jefferson. And Lord knows they've grown up beautifully under that idea. I just don't want you to confuse cowardice with common sense. You've been guilty of that before, I recall." Grandma's eyebrows rose, daring him to challenge it.

Jeff had the grace to look sheepish. "Not lately, I hope. And I won't say the proposal to run wasn't tempting after what the boys did yesterday."

"Oh? What was that?" Grandma asked, curious.

"Gordon and Alan caused a scene with their gifts at the museum. It's a miracle they weren't arrested and locked up."

"Good Lord! They're alright, aren't they?"

"They'd better be, with a week of wood-chopping duty ahead of them," Jeff chuckled. Then he sighed. "I've told them time after time, Mother. Honestly, what more can I do? I _know_ they're smarter than that."

"Of course they are," Mrs Tracy nodded reassuringly. "And you've done all you can do with them. They're just young Jefferson. Some things take time to grow and ripen, and there's just no way to hurry them along. They're good boys and you've done a fine job, and they're already growing up bright and strong; but sometimes you must just let things come to be."

"I'm not good at that, Mother," Jeff smiled.

"You think I don't know?" Mrs Tracy laughed warmly. "Not to worry, Jefferson. It will happen, I can already see that same shine in them that you had. I don't like it when they falter anymore than you, but I've always known things to comfort me when they do."

"Like what?" Jeff asked. Maybe it would help him deal with the anxiety.

"Well," Grandma replied, a twinkle in her eye. "I seem to remember a young lad from long ago. Big, strapping boy he was, wore his father's plaid and his grandfather's hat. Once wrapped up old Rawly Frome's tractor in so much barbed wire that they practically had to take it apart to get it clear; and let me tell you, he got a lot more than a weeks wood chopping from _his_ father over it!" She gave a sly smile in her son's slightly red face. "I don't suppose you remember him, do you? After all, you did grow up with him."

"I remember him," Jeff sighed, his eyes suddenly looking far into the past days of a Kansas summer. "I've never forgotten him. But don't tell the boys, whatever you do!" He came back abruptly. "I have enough trouble maintaining discipline in my household as it is!"

"Just so long as you _do_ remember him, son, and how his story ended." Grandma smiled at Jeff, and Jeff smiled back. Suddenly he felt much more optimistic about the day.

"Don't worry about us," he assured her. "We're clear of the mess for now. I'm keeping the jet fuelled just in case. You know that I can smell trouble. The minute anything hits the fan, you'll see us pulling up on the fallow field, you mark my words."

"I am, young man. And I suggest you be careful. And no long hours! Stay with your sons, boy, I'm expecting to see them hale and healthy in the summer!"

"Yes Mother," Jeff bowed his head in recognition of her supreme authority. "You take care too. The PRA is about to squeeze – I don't need to have precognition to know that," Jeff warned.

"Lord, boy, not a farmer in these parts'd stand for them high and mighty townies!" Grandma said disparagingly. Her opinions on the matter were very clear. "If they want to take me, they can go ahead and try."

Jeff knew who he was betting on in that case. "Sounds fair enough to me." Jeff looked at his watch, and groaned at the time. "I have to go, Mother, I'm expecting a call. Take care of yourself, you hear?"

"I will if you will," was her challenge in reply.

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"Jeff Tracy, you awful cad!"

Jeff sighed. He we go again…

"Is it really so difficult for one – an engineer one, no less – to make a quick call? Really! A gentleman should not keep a Lady waiting by the phone!" Lady Penelope's glare was far softer than Grandma's, but then again so were _diamonds_.

"Sorry Penny," he replied to the glowing pink Lady with real contriteness. "I had plans in place after I learned on the attack and a call to you was right up there, let me tell you."

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, long time friend of the Tracy clan, Lucille and Jeff in particular, raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow in unspoken query.

"I had an unexpectedly efficient visit from the PRA," Jeff admitted. "Nothing groundbreaking, but the whole thing disgusted me enough to send me straight home to check on the boys. They certainly didn't waste their time," Jeff's voice was angry and bitter.

"Now Jeff," Lady Penelope was consoling. "You know it couldn't have been avoided. And now that, I'm sure, you firmly shown them the outside of your door, they will not have any overt means of contacting you. You psychics still have a few rights left on your side of the Atlantic I believe, and that's one of them."

"It's not the overt means that have ever concerned me Penny," Jeff sighed. "But, as usual, you're right. Better to just get it over with, I suppose."

"I always am, Jeff," Lady Penelope's smile was both cocky and pretty. "How are the boys?"

"Coping as well as usual," Jeff replied, and gave her the same brief run down that he'd given his Mother, including the museum incident. He was not entirely surprised to hear her laugh merrily when she heard the story; she had always been a bit soft on the boys. He gave her a slightly reproving look.

"Oh, come on Jeff," her eyes sparkled mischievously. "You know I don't like the idea of them getting caught out, but you couldn't possibly be too old to remember how good it felt to give your bullies and tormentors a well deserved what-for."

"It's not the 'standing up for yourself' bit that I disapprove of," Jeff protested mildly. "Just the methods which they used."

"I'm sure they've learned their lesson Jeff, so there's really no need to be worried about a repeat performance."

"I certainly hope not," Jeff replied fervently. "Not after yesterday's attack."

Lady Penelope sobered up slightly. "I hope not too. My sources are telling me that two Secret Service Agents and a Senator and a Senators Aide were murdered. The President and about half of the White House staff are down with injuries, and a good many of them are critical. The uninjured members of the staff and various Chiefs of Staff have cobbled together an emergency committee for the running of the country. It looks bad for the gifted population of America, Jeff," she shook her head. "A lot of psychic control Bills and proposals never went through simply because not enough anti-psychic groups within the Congress and Senate could agree on what was an appropriate measure of control. Now a lot of the more conservative proposals are being pushed aside, and the more drastic ones are emerging from the field. A lot of fence-sitters and reluctants have been swayed by the attack. You can be sure that their reaction to the attack will not be very understanding – there's not a single psychic in either Congress or Senate that can stand up for your rights, either."

Jeff put his head in his hands. "I don't think I can stop it, Penny," he said sadly. "Maybe with the right pressures in the right places I can slow it down, but it's about six hundred to one against the psychics in this country. They're not a big enough minority for people to care, and the fear factor keeps everyone well away in any case."

"There are times when even you can't save the world, Jeff. It won't be safe for psychics in America soon. Might I suggest you bring the boys to London? They're always welcome, of course, and they'll have access to all the best old schools. Parker would love to see them too, and so would I."

"Tempting, Penny, but I've already decided to let them run out the school year, such as it is, if we can," Jeff replied kindly. "And after that…did you take a look at the papers I gave you?'

Lady Penelope nodded with a smile. "Better. I ran is past my lawyer, Parker's lawyer, some of the best legal scholars in Cambridge and Oxford and several members of the Queens Counsel. They all agree, at the core, that your legal position is sound. Psychic control was always considered a national not an international issue, so international law can protect you without controlling you."

"Fabulous," Jeff felt heady with enthusiasm. "Just what I needed to hear. Is everything settled?"

"Just a few more days to confirm the validity of your Letter of Credit, and then it's done. The PRA won't be able to get in the way of it, either."

"Good," Jeff nodded. He felt the same contented satisfaction he felt after seeing one of his machines running to perfection for the first time. If this actually worked… Something Lady Penelope said suddenly registered as a point of interest. "Wait, Parker has a lawyer?"

Lady Penelope stared at him. "You do know what he used to do for a living, right?" she asked, disbelieving. "Mr Cobblestone is not a…_elite_ lawyer, but he's quite a slick street representative and a sly operator. Not a single lawyer I spoke to knew more about legal tricks and loopholes. If anyone could spot a weakness in the argument, he could. He seemed quite tickled by the idea, I thought. What can I say," she shrugged philosophically. "The best man to spot a con is a con-artist."

"Fair enough," Jeff agreed. "Thanks for all your help, Penny."

"It's not a problem Jeff," Penelope smiled. Then she raised a finger in warning. "But if you leave me sitting by the phone again when something else happens, it will go very hard for you. Clear?"

"Crystal."

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It was several hours many meetings later. Jeff was sitting in richly carpeted and wood panelled office, working his way through a blizzard of paperwork. He worked as quickly as he could and had asked not to be disturbed – if he didn't follow his Mother's orders and have no long hours she would _know._

Squinting at his engineering corp.'s atrocious handwriting as they reported the progress of the latest line of personal use helijets, he was abruptly interrupted by the outer office com buzzer.

"Mrs Collen?"

"There's someone here to see you, sir," Mrs Collen spoke clearly and concisely. "He doesn't have an appointment, but I thought you'd want to see him. It's Mr Hackenbacker, sir."

Hackenba…"What, Dr. Hackenbacker?" Jeff was startled.

"Yes, sir."

Jeff wasn't often surprised, but this visit had come out of left field. He certainly wasn't going to leave the man waiting. "I'll see him."

"I though you might, sir," Mrs Collen replied, amused. "I told him to wait in the conference room."

Jeff hadn't seen Hiram Hackenbacker in six years. They had collaborated on the design of a series of passenger jets able to land vertically, which had been a tricky and problematic project that had reaped many millions when they had come up with a viable design and prototype.

Jeff still remembered meeting the reclusive scientist at a symposium, where he'd been amazed at the awkward, stuttering, bespectacled figure standing uncomfortably at the podium, and then astounded at the brilliance and simplicity of his multi-scientific prowess. Jeff Tracy, no slouch in the genius stakes, took his hat off to the supernova that was the gangly scientist's mind.

He, like so many other CEO's, had been willing to pay top dollar to employ the man, but Dr Hackenbacker had been strictly a freelancer – doing temporary engineering and design contracts in between university teaching and gaining his four PhD's. His was known as an erratic, eclectic worker – he chose projects on their complexity merits not their financial gain, something which made most corporate heads tear their hair out. Not many outside projects ever captured the eccentric man's interest. He had come to do work for Jeff simply because the project had been considered impossible.

Jeff had wanted to make a job offer as soon as he heard Hackenbacker speak at the symposium, but the man's wife had died very soon after, and Jeff Tracy was sensitive about things like that. He had chosen sentiment over business, and left the man alone to grieve. Hackenbacker had all but withdrawn from society until making an offer to work with Tracy Corp on the aforementioned project.

During the project, they had formed an odd sort of friendship – Jeff Tracy as one of the few men who had a hope of keeping up with the wild leaps of inspiration Hackenbacker had, and Hackenbacker, Jeff had always felt, had always been oddly impressed with the breadth and scope of Jeff's visions. He'd also been grateful to Jeff for allowing his son, Fermat, to hang around while they were working. The boy had been painfully shy and had the same chronic stutter as his father, and had apparently been home schooled, so he had nowhere else to go.

Come to think of it, Jeff recalled, he'd brought Alan in a few times to play with the boy, since they were the same age, and it was pretty hard for an eight year old to be stuck in a design lab all day. He smiled as he remembered how patiently the usually bouncy young Alan had waited for the young Hackenbacker to overcome his shyness approach him. It had been a very tactful thing to do, and proof of the boy's sensitivity, even then. Hackenbacker had been startled by how well his son had gotten on with the youngest Tracy – he usually barely spoke at anyone at all.

After the project had finished, Hackenbacker had withdrawn again, doing a lecture circuit of the top universities on nanotechnology. Jeff had been sorry to see the man go, but often got e-mails of drafts for articles from him, which were mini masterpieces. Jeff would sometimes send him an odd design or problem that he had no time to pursue but was interesting enough for the scientist to experiment with. They hadn't actually spoken, however, since their collaboration.

Jeff moved to automatically straighten his tie, then stopped, remembering who he was going to meet. He would only notice what you were wearing if you walked in naked.

When he walked into the conference room, he found the scientist, just as gangly and bespectacled as he remembered, sitting in one of the middle chairs of the long, polished boardroom table. At the far end of the room, the huge multimedia screen glowed with an artistic watery screensaver, causing the dim room to glimmer soothingly. Hackenbacker appeared to be examining a scale model of a rocket, mounted in a glass case in the centre of the table. He bent over it, thick glasses and lank, dark hair slipping all over his face.

"Like it Brains?" Jeff said in greeting. He remembered the old nickname his other engineers had given him – appropriate and less of a mouthful than 'Dr Hackenbacker'. It had stuck irrevocably.

Brains straightened jerkily, nearly knocking his already askew case off the conference table. He righted it, and then nearly tripped over the chair as he moved to meet Jeff. Nope, he hadn't changed a bit – the grace and brilliance of his mind was forever offset by the awkwardness of his body.

"M-M-M-Mr Tracy," the super-brain began, looking slightly nervous. "It's a pl-pl-pl-pl it's a real treat to see you again, sir."

Jeff smiled soothingly at the man. "It is indeed, Brains," he shook the man's hand firmly. "How have you been?"

"F-f-f-f quite well, M-Mr Tracy," Brains replied. "I was just, uh, admiring the, uh, m-m-m-m…copy of the rocket's design. The 3PB-3050 I-I believe? It's thr-thr-thr-thr…the tri-booster design is quite distinct-distinct…unique. Uh, however, uh, I believe," slight smile graced Brains' face. "That the o-o-o-original craft was, uh, painted in blues and b-blacks." He gestured at the bright red model.

Jeff grinned. "That was my son's idea. I bought him in when he was sick one day and they were putting it in. He _insisted_ it had to be a red." It still made him laugh years later when he pictured Alan's tiny face set in complete indignation over the stupidity of painting a rocket blue, and the engineering section had been so amused by the boy's insistence that they had hijacked a paint gun from the factory floor and had repainted it. Jeff had to admit, the model was certainly more distinctive now.

"I, uh, believe the pre-prevailing theory at that age is that the r-r-r crimson hue increases the uh, accelerating p-p-power exponentially."

Jeff laughed along with the scientist. Every boy knew that red cars go faster.

"I-I-If I may uh, ask, Mr Tracy," Brains looked over the small rocket. "W-w-w-w…How did you choose the 3BP? It w-was fraught w-w-w-with engineering fau-fau-fau…problems due to the, uh, over-powerful engine, c-c-c-c…responsible for m-metal stress. It was, uh, grou-grou-ground…it was scrapped as too expensive, uh, wasn't it? No-no-no one needed a re-re-re, a rocket you could use multiple t-times."

Jeff shrugged. "I've always felt it had more merit that people thought. A rocket that was more like a plane, which could take flights instead of one launch? It was an idea before its time, that's all. We've come a long way since then."

Brains smiled at him, and Jeff knew the man agreed.

"How is young Fermat doing, Brains?" Jeff asked, the memories from the model building taking his mind onto another track.

"Oh, oh, he's very w-w-w-w healthy Mr. Tracy," Brains straightened up, smiling more. "He began the uh, mainstream schooling just e-eighteen months ago and he, uh, seems to be coping q-q-q very well with it."

"That's fantastic. I'm glad to hear it," Jeff said sincerely.

"Uh, yes…uh well," Brain's face was suddenly pensive. "Uh, ac-ac-actually, Mr Tracy, I-I-I-I came here today…to…to, uh, ask for your assis-assis…I need your help, Mr Tracy."

Jeff was in a position to be startled again. "What? What's the problem? You know I'll help if I can."

"Uh, well, uh," Brains sighed. "M-m-maybe you'd better sit down."

Jeff did so. He watched the genius' face and its drawn, worried expression.

"Uh, well," Brains began. "A-a-as you know, uh, Mr Tracy, I am, uh, gifted with Electropathy," the man tugged out the coded armband, and spun it anxiously around his wrist. Jeff remembered – building things was a quick job between the two of them. Brains' ability to generate electric currents in his body was similar to Gordon's fire making, and Jeff had known how to deal with it. "I-I-I never s-said anything, uh, Mr Tracy, b-but my son is, uh, gifted as well. Technopathy."

Jeff took a breath at that. Technopaths – people with the ability to psychically read and change the electronic pulses of machines and computers – control them, really – was a rare gift indeed. Now that he thought about it… "He always did have uncanny skill with computers," Jeff said out loud.

"Y-y-yes, Mr Tracy," Brains nodded. "T-t-that was his p-p-p-p, his aptitude at work. B-b-b-b, however, as I'm, uh, sure you know, uh, Mr Tracy, the gifts c-c-come with physiological ri-ri-ri dangers."

Oh yes, he definitely knew that. How many times had teams of specialists been called in for his sons? Jeff reckoned he'd spent more time in ER's than some doctors.

"M-m-my son w-w-w-w so inu-inu-inur, so mired in the currents and electronic data being transmitted in the air all, uh, over the world, his b-b-brain cou-cou-cou…it was impossible for him to s-sleep. His b-b-b-rain picked up the f-f-frequencies, and the electronic stimulation, uh, made it impossible f-f-for the natural, uh, ceasing of uh, neuron activity that al-al-al…lets a person sleep. E-e-even under sedation, uh, his brain was still ju-ju-ju…exactly as active as it would have been, uh, if he'd been conscious, uh, perhaps even more so."

"Good God," Jeff exclaimed. Even John had never had that kind of problem! "I imagine that was wearing out his mind like an overloaded computer."

"Oh _yes_, Mr Tracy," Brains replied vehemently. He opened his case and dug around in it, before extracting a video disk. "M-M-May I…?"

Jeff went over to the video screen and clicked back a panel off to the side, revealing the multimedia equipment. Brains followed him and slid the disk in, accepting the remote offered by Jeff.

"T-t-this is a tape I, uh, made back w-w-when Fermat was three," Brains explained, fiddling with the buttons. "It, uh, demonstrates the, uh, well….take a-a look…"

Jeff did, and was utterly sickened by what he saw. A tiny child, dark haired but shot with premature grey, in a wheelchair and hooked up to IV's, his face as gaunt as a bare skull, black bags around his eyes and stress lines all over his face. His dark eyes were dazed and dull, his lips moved without stopping as he muttered and slurred words, pieces of messages and codes rendered to gibberish in his overworked mind. He just sat there, slumped, still in diapers, crying as be stuttered and mumbled, his hands and face a patchwork of nervous tics. A small woman, looking equally worn out, sat with him, stroking his hair, trying to soothe him, touching him exactly as Lucille had caressed their sons. The boy's mother, Brains' wife.

No horror movie could have done better. Jeff was wholly relieved when Brains shut off the tape.

"It was t-t-terrible, Mr Tracy," Brains said quietly, not looking at him. "Everyday, my son suffered. B-b-but take a look, uh, at this one…"

He put on another disk. This one was worlds better. It showed young Fermat, one year older, his face a now healthy tone, filled out and years younger looking, not twitching or jerking, his eyes bright and curious and his natural hair colour restored. The wheelchair and the IV's were gone, and he was dressed like a normal four year old, sporting glasses like his fathers.

He was doing a puzzle – a difficult one – with lightning speed.

"_M-Mama l-l-look! I f-f-finished!"_

"_Already?"_ The woman was back, looking much happier. "_Wow, mama can't even do it that fast! That's really amazing! You're such a bright boy."_

"_Daddy! D-D-D-Daddy, look, look!"_

"_I s-s-see it! Mama's right, that was, uh, ex-ex-excep…really terrific,_" came Brains' voice from behind the camera. _"You're s-s-spatial perception is uh…" _there was a pause of incomprehension. _"You did s-s-so well…"_ Brains finished simply.

Brains shut off the disk, and took it back while an eloquent silence filled the room.

Jeff stared at the watery patterns on the screen, his mind on fire. "How?" he asked eventually.

Brains' smile was slightly wry. He dug around in his briefcase again, withdrawing what looked like a swimming cap strung out with wires. It was attached to a light battery, and looked rather like a brain wave measurement matrix.

"T-T-This is what I, uh, came here about," the scientist held it up. Jeff took it gently, turning it over in his hands and giving it an engineer's once over.

"The s-s-science behind the, uh, the device is quite, uh com-com-com, it's quite hard to describe. Put in the s-s-s-simplest terms, they h-h-have found that psychic's intracranial, uh, neuron transmissions – that's the g-g-g…the creation of psychic e-e-energy in the brain – occur at slightly, uh, different frequency, uh than n-n-n…than mundane thought. The e-e-electo magnetic uh, wavelength that the, uh, d-d-device produces is designed to, uh, interfere with those frequencies, e-e-enough to cause transmission mal-mal-malfunctions. It k-k-k-ke…it stops the brain from gen-gen-gen…making enough psychic energy in the brain, uh, for the brain to, uh, use."

Jeff turned to device over in his hands again. His voice sounded far away when he said "The PRA's Psy-Blockers do the same, don't they?"

"Oh n-n-no uh, Mr Tracy. The Psy-Blocker d-device is a complete, potent, uh, electronic charge that, uh, des-des-des…knocks out the ability to, uh, concentrate. It's c-c-centred around the Medulla Oblongata - the, uh, brain stem - and can c-c-cause havoc with n-n-nervous systems and, uh, c-c-c-cognitive functions. This device, as you can, uh, see," he took it from Jeff's hands and turned it upright, to show him the roof of wires, and pointed out the two central sensors which would sit over the front of the forehead. "This d-d-d…this is centred over the, uh, frontal lobe. It's also not a charge, uh, its a magnetic wave, so it m-m-merely gen-gently stops the psychic transmissions from reaching the, uh, frontal lobe as they move from the, uh, central ner-ner-nervous system. Sort of like a r-r-r-roadblock. The Psy-Blocker's are, uh, more a-aligned with miss-miss-miss…with cannons shooting down psychic, uh, energy producing centres."

"Its…" But there was no word for what it was. A machine that could stop a psychic's power, and still leave them able to function? It was...indescribable. Jeff wasn't sure how to feel. "Fermat doesn't wear it all the time?" he asked, his engineer's brain suddenly wanting all the details.

"A-a-at first, yes, Mr Tracy," Brains withdrew a dishevelled bundle of papers and spread them out over the conference table. Years worth of researching and testing rose up to meet Jeff as he skimmed over the messy note work. "But as his, uh, concentration and h-h-h-health improved, uh, we were able to get him into a Mental C-C-Control course. Control c-c-c-came quickly to him, b-b-b-because now the flood of d-d-d…information had been s-s-stopped and he could, uh, really c-c-c…focus." The stutter was more pronounced as the scientists enthusiasm expanded. "A-a-all he needed w-w-was a, uh, way to quiet the, uh din, so he could d-d-d-d…could learn control mechanisms. After that, uh," Brains shrugged. "He just needed it t-to sleep."

"Good Lord, Doctor," Jeff said finally. "Do you know what you have in your hands?" He raised an eyebrow. "You really do, don't you? That's why you came to me."

In the right hands, this device could be a therapeutic and useful means of preserving a psychic's health and mental well being. In the wrong hands…Jeff suddenly saw a world where hate mongers and fanatics and the PRA had a way to control psychics with the touch of a button, where powers could be switched on when needed, and switched off on the whim of organisations that had no interest in what the actual _people_ wanted or thought or needed. And who would stop them? Uncontrolled psychics were the biggest recorded fear on any statistic census you care to name.

Brains needed someone to help him protect this – bury it even, if things got bad. He was a brilliant scientist, but he wasn't politically powerful, he didn't walk in powerful circles, even if he drew their attention. And he needed someone who would understand it from a psychic's standpoint – and a fathers.

"Mr Tracy," Brains said softly. "I-I-I created this s-s-so my sons could have a g-good nights sleep. If this," he looked at the things in his ands. "Uh, is rev-rev-revea…if this gets out, I think, uh, it will be me who will n-n-never be able to sleep."

Jeff stared at him, and back down at the device in the scientist's hands." What do you need?"

-----------------------------------------

"I need more books."

"John," Scott rolled his eyes. "You've got a _library_ at home. You've actually used the Dewey system in our house. _Why_ do you need more books?"

"Professor Slater hinted at a further exploration of frequency transmission along laser lines in the exams, and Giuseppe's _Lasers Across Worlds _has an entire section on it and the library is all out. I need to pick up a copy soon so I can read through it before the exams or I could fail…" he trailed off in the face of Scott's disbelieving stare.

"John," Scott said with fraternal patience. "You _need_ to get a _life_. You? Fail an exam? If someone walked up to you right now and put it in your face and told you that you had six minutes, you'd still ace it with a minute to spare."

John punched Scott's shoulder. "Says the man who booked out the flight simulators _every_ weekend for a year and still had sweaty palms when he took the pilots licence test. It'll take me ten minutes at the mall. Virgil told me he needs to get more parts for his Advanced Shop project as well."

"Didn't Dad say just this morning that we needed to stay close to home? Besides, we only bought the SUV today. I don't think Dad would be happy if you were stuck walking home from the mall, even if you're together," Scott shook his head, clearly not happy with the idea.

"So? We can all go, can't we?" John argued.

"Uh, the brats are grounded, remember? We can't leave them home alone and go back out, either, Dad would definitely kill us. He told us to stick close."

"Ten minutes at the mall isn't grounding-breaking," John grinned at his brother's groan over the weak pun. "We'll take the brats with us. All together – Dad can't disapprove of that."

Scott sighed. There _were_ things he needed to pick up too. "I don't know, John…"

"Call Dad and ask him," John suggested. "I'm sure he won't mind as long as Alan and Gordon aren't left on their own."

Scott gave up in the face of this sort of logic, and made the call. His father sounded slightly distracted when he spoke, but reluctantly agreed, as long as the visit was short.

"Just be careful, Scotty," his father said, sounding weary. "And make it short. Get everything you think you might need for the next few weeks and then get on home. And watch Gordon and Alan, for goodness sake, we don't need a repeat of the museum. Don't let them go off to do their own thing – they're still grounded."

"Yeah, okay, Dad," Scott affirmed. Concerned, he added "Are you okay? You sound a little…" Scott didn't know another word, but you couldn't really apply the word _shaken_ to his father.

"I'm okay, Scotty," Jeff replied tiredly. "Dr Hackenbacker's here, and he's just shown me something new. You remember Brains, don't you?"

Scott had a vision of a gangling form and a chronic stutter. "Yeah, I remember him. What's he got, something good?"

"Something…profound," Jeff replied. "I'll tell you at home, I think you ought to know about it. Don't worry, its nothing bad. Take care out there, alright? I'm going to be a little late."

"Okay Dad. See you tonight."

Scott stared at the phone after he hung up. Dad hadn't sounded right at all, but he hadn't seemed scared or angry. He said they'd talk when he got home. Scott intended to hold him to that.

"Scott?" John said from behind. "Do you know what Brains would've shown him?"

Scott shouldn't be surprised that John read the whole conversation. "Not a clue. We'll find out tonight. Let the brats know, okay? I've got a lecture."

"And Virgil?"

"'Brats' includes Virgil," Scott snickered, and John followed him. "I'm still not happy about this, John." He added pensively.

"Its ten minutes at the mall," John shrugged. Then he did something he should have known better than to do. He said "What could go wrong?"

----------------------------------------------------

G.H. Randall was a worried man. "Are you sure?"

"Yes sir," the young security worker responded with certainty. "The silver Sedan followed," the security worker consulted the sign in sheet. "Mr Hackenbacker's convertible right up to the plaza, and it's been sitting there ever since. Pressure sensors indicate too much weight for just the two people we can see, and when I did a bug sweep over it I was definitely picking up activity."

"So he's under surveillance. Anything off the plates?" Randall asked.

"According to the federal DMV, the car doesn't exist."

Perfect. It meant they were either criminals or spooks, and Randall, a man of many covert missions, wasn't sure which was worse.

"Send a man out to tell them they can't park in the plaza, turn on the white noise generators and put more people on building surveillance. Our bug sweeper isn't exactly legal for use outside the building, so arresting them is out. Just make sure they can't hear what's going on."

"Yes, sir."

Mr Tracy wasn't going to like this.

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End Part III


	4. The First Rescue

Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds, characters, situation and so forth are owned by Gerry & Sylvia Anderson, and the various studios involved. This is a non profit, entertainment only work of fiction.

Warnings: There's some very mild bad language, adult themes and intense situations.

Authors Notes: Hey, part number four, even I'm impressed. I enjoyed writing this chapter, it's full of action and the boys come close to being the professional rescuers that they are in this chapter.

Just as a writer's aside, isn't Brains' dialogue hard to write? A stutter can be frustrating even on the page!

Just as another aside, I have a slight complaint. I only got one review for the last chapter! Please review! It always helps to have comments as I write, so I know what works and what I need to change.

_Please Review!_

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Part IV – The First Rescue

_In which there is – Corporate Competition – the Device isn't Secret – the Offer – 'Call it a Dollar' – the Bottom Falls out of the World – Garstone – Witty Repartee with the Tracy Boys – Scott and Gordon Debate – John and Alan Philosophise – the Vision – the First Rescue – Misunderstanding the 10-98 - the Neat and Precise Mr Erbehart – Sprung – Home Again – Jeff's Pride_

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Jeff Tracy was most definitely not happy. He hadn't been for the last two hours after Randall's call had immediately followed the call from Scott.

His security people had taken shots of the car and tried to get a look at the people through the tinted windows, but nothing had come of it so far. Hopefully the photos could be digitally enhanced.

It had taken off the moment the white noise generators had been switched on, and if they didn't have proof of surveillance before that, then that action tipped the scales.

Jeff had questioned the scientist, who had been deeply disturbed by the revelation.

"I-I-It must be the device, uh, Mr Tracy. S-s-somehow someone has disc-disc…has found out. But h-h-h-h…by what means?" Brains eyes looked inward, searching and questioning, extrapolating answers from thin air. "P-P-Palton In-In-In-International uses he-he-heri…old fashioned S-S-Sedan's for c-c-c-company c-c-c…vehicles. I'm w-w-working for them at the, uh, moment, Mr Tracy. They c-c-con…they made a deal with me to, uh, design a new s-s-safety foam f-f-f-for P-Palton's line of cars."

"I heard of that, they're releasing the line next week," Jeff idly rubbed a temple. "Your contract must be ending soon."

"Yes, uh, Mr Tracy," Brains nodded. "Mr P-P-Palton has been en-en-enc…trying to convince me to, uh, stay on. And h-h-he's been hin-hin-hin…making comments ab-about going into, uh, psychic research and de-de-development concerns." Brains' eyes narrowed as he mapped out the last few weeks of contacts with Mr Palton, suspicions forming.

Jeff knew Bale Palton – a rival for Tracy Corp, but not the most powerful out there. Palton was a good business man, but unsentimental and unsympathetic and not at all subtle. "I'll wager if he thinks you have something new he'd have been taking all your notes and records for scrutiny. Does he have legal rights to everything you cook up while working for him?"

"H-h-he has b-b-been, uh, confiscating my papers for the, uh, past few w-w-weeks, now that I think about it. And n-n-n-no, Mr Tracy," Brains shook his head. "I have never s-s-si…agreed to a contact w-w-with those sort of, uh, c-clauses on them. It w-w-w-would make no, uh, real dif-dif…it wouldn't matter if h-h-h-he did, anyway." Brains stirred up the paperwork on the table, withdrawing a slightly crumpled official letterhead page.

Jeff skimmed it, and his eyebrows rose. "It's patented?"

"Y-years ago. W-w-w-when I-I'd fully, uh, tested it and it, uh, worked for my s-son, I decided it w-w-would be for the b-b-best. I p-p-pat-pat…I categorised it as a s-sleeping aid, n-n-not a psychic device."

Brains may not be politically minded, but he was certainly not an absentminded fool.

"Palton must suspect something." Jeff turned the problem over in his mind. Brains had kept this invention entirely private, it seemed. "Did you tell anyone you were coming to see me?"

"N-no one, My Tracy," Brains shook his head. "I-i-i-it was, uh, spurred by the at-at-at…incident at the W-White House yesterday, but I've been, uh, thinking it over for m-m-many months now. I-I-I never t-t-t…spoke a word to anyone, certainly not Mr P-Palton."

Jeff knew the man wasn't careless with his words – if he said he didn't, he didn't. He turned it around in his mind again. Forget your assumptions, who _could_ know? A telepath working in the…

"Brains," Jeff said softly. "Does Fermat still accompany you to the lab?"

"E-e-e-everyday after s-s-s-sc…after his academics," Brains replied, looking nonplussed. "We l-l-live on P-P-Palton building c-compound…" Brains trailed off as his mind was activated. "Oh dear…"

"He may not have actually said anything," Jeff pointed out. "Someone may have picked up on the technopathy – if Palton learned of it, then he would look into it. He's always trolling for psychics he can use for his business." It was one of many reasons Jeff Tracy never dealt with the man. His opinion of Palton had been solidified in ice after he made an absurd and insulting offer to contract Jeff's sons – Scott for the factory floor and the flow of cars through the works, and John for meeting with competitors as a corporate spy for both Palton International and Tracy Corp. Jeff had walked out on him before he'd murdered the man and had refused contact with him or any of his companies since. "Fermat's medical records would be public under the Psychic Care Act – after that it would be a matter of deduction, given that one of your fields of study is parapsychology. Palton's always had ties to the PRA because of his use of psychics." Jeff added gloomily. Whoever was in that car didn't matter, the PRA would be at the root. Thankfully the conference room was bug-proof and Brains would have been thoroughly scanned before he ever hit the upper levels, so the likelihood of them actually learning anything would be small.

"I think," Jeff said consideringly. "I should buy the patent. That would put it under Tracy Corp's control as a private investment. The PRA would have to deal with the whole corporation to get it. Do you agree?"

"T-T-That was my, uh, original plan, Mr Tracy," Brains smiled.

"How much do you want for it? You can name your price."

"F-F-For Tracy Corp? W-we'll, uh, call it a dollar."

Jeff laughed, and then realised Brains was serious. "Oh come _on_, Brains! That thing is worth billions!"

"Y-y-y-y-yes, sir," Brains was thoroughly enjoying the shock. "I-I-I'd also like to, uh, s-s-speak to you about the M-M-M-Mail Clerk pos-pos-pos…job offer I saw in the lobby. I a-a-assure you m-m-my organisational and d-d-delivery abilities will meet you req-req…specifications."

"Mail clerk?" Jeff echoed. "Four Doctorates and you want me to put you to work as a _mail clerk_?"

"The lowliest, uh, position in T-T-Tracy Corp right now is safer f-f-for my s-s-son and I than any uni-uni-uni …college or, uh, research centre in the country, M-Mr Tracy."

No fool he, Jeff Tracy thought.

"Welcome aboard," Jeff held out a hand for Brains to shake. "But I'm not wasting you in a mail room. I'll come up with a position. In the meantime, I'll take your patent at a dollar," he grinned, seeing the humour. "And throw in a house. Any property, anywhere you like, at any price. It isn't safe for you to live at Palton's compound, he might use Fermat against you. He'd try something like that," Jeff said in disgust. "The deed will be in your name – and you're free to pull out at any time for whatever reason. I'm not Palton," Jeff declared firmly. "I won't back you into a corner. Agreed?"

"S-sounds perfect, Mr Tracy," Brains was smiling, the worry gone. "A-a-and thankyou, uh, Mr Tracy. I r-r-r…truly appreciate it."

"Purely for personal gain, Brains," Jeff clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "I've always needed a super-brain around. I'll have the legal eagles draw something up for…"

The doors burst open, and Randall came flying in, face set stonily.

"Mr Tracy, thank Christ you're still around!" he exclaimed.

"What is it Randall?" Jeff stood up like he'd been pulled by a string. Brains stared at the bear like man.

The man hesitated, his eyes flickering to the scientist. Jeff noticed.

"This is Dr Hackenbacker Randall, an old friend. I just employed him. He can be trusted with anything discreet."

Randall relaxed slightly. He trusted Jeff's judgement on people. If Jeff said he was trustworthy, then that's damn well what he was.

"Sorry for barging in, sir. I wasn't sure whether you'd gone home or not, but I thought you'd want to know ASAP. You must have left your mobile in the office." Randall straightened to parade rest, not even breathing hard, though Jeff was certain he's taken all 1,235 steps.

Gone home? Jeff looked at the clock on the wall, and nearly groaned. Was it really almost evening? Mother was going to _kill_ him… "What's up? Sedan came back?" he asked warily.

"Worse," Randall strode forward, and scooped the remote off the table. He switched the rooms view screen on to television mode. "Some of the lads and lasses were watching TV at the main desk and saw this. You're going to want to get down there, sir. I've already prepped the armoured van up in the street."

"Go wh…" Jeff stopped, and the bottom seemed to fall out of his world. On the screen was an on-the-scene reporter outside a familiar looking shopping complex. _The one his boys used_…In front of them were the distinctive black PRA marked padded vans, and a couple of flashing police cruisers. And being loaded into the vans…_Scott was supporting a bow-headed Virgil, the other three not even in sight…_

The reporter's voice came from some distant place. _'…reports are unconfirmed at this point but witnesses say that there was some kind of high level use of psychic power involved in the incident…'_

-----------------------------------------------

"Where _are_ they?" Scott growled impatiently, tapping his fingers on the hood of the SUV, which he'd perched on.

"I thought they needed people who were calm under pressure in the Air Force," Virgil commented innocently.

Scott shot him a withering look, and looked back up at the square compound that was Garstone Academy.

All the Tracy boys went to Garstone – even Scott and John. It was one of those robust comprehensives that covered all ages from Kindergarten to college levels. It was one of the only respectable schools that took in and had facilities for gifted children, at least, the only one not run by the PRA. It was hideously expensive, but high tech, well taught and a blanket solution for the education needs of the Tracy boys.

Because Garstone was so prestigious, when Scott was accepted into Yale and John into Harvard they were able to attend lectures by broadcast, attending in the psychic 'safe' rooms in the gifted section of the campus.

Academic excellence didn't come easily to the Tracy boys. Not because they weren't bright – they were extremely smart, but the majority of the population was incapable of believing that gifted people didn't have an academic advantage over ordinary people. All sorts of convoluted security measures – 'blind examiner' tests, more emphasis on rote learning, surprise exam dates, and many more – were used to ensure that everything was fair and equal. No university in the country would take on a student with psychic gifts without heavy conditions to ensure fairness, and Garstone's safe rooms were one of the few methods which such high-level colleges as Harvard and Yale would accept ensured it.

Jeff wasn't happy about that – as much as he loved having his family close to him, he believed his sons should have the opportunity to experience college life in person, making their own way, getting out into the world. He hated that they were so ostracised, their choices and experience so narrowed and stunted by societies fears. But education was important, and their degrees were all the more prestigious for being so hard-won through the rigorous screening and regulations they faced. They were willing to bear it for the rewards at the end.

John appeared, two more Tracy's in tow.

"Come _on_, lets go," Scott jumped off the hood and opened the doors of the family SUV. "Dad said we have to be quick."

"I don't care if we have to go underwear shopping," Gordon groaned theatrically as he clambered in after to Alan. "As long as I can get some food! You can meet me in the food court, just look for the mountain of nachos."

"Oh no, not playing that game Gordon," Scott negated, shutting the drivers door firmly. "Grounded, remember? That means Alan's going with John and you're coming with me, and you get a weeks more wood chopping for every minute you're out of our sight."

Alan sighed. "I don't suppose you've got anything fun on the agenda Johnny?"

"Of course I do," John replied, strapping himself into the passenger seat. He smirked. "We're going to the fascinating and enthralling…"

"Book store," Gordon finished flatly, feeling distinctly less enthusiastic now. "He's going to the book store. You know, this obsession of yours just isn't natural. You should see a shrink. Or an exorcist."

"Says the fire maker turned champion swimmer?" John raised an eyebrow in challenge. "I'm definitely seeing signs of subconscious conflict."

"I am a multifaceted individual."

"And all the facets are BS," Alan snickered. The others all chuckled as well.

"I have a very wise and witty answer for you there, Sprout," Gordon replied cheerfully.

"What?"

"_This_!"

"Arrrggg!" Alan was caught in a full blown headlock noogie, skewed across two seats and Virgil, who was laughing and helpfully holding him still.

"All right, all right," Scott called order between chuckles. "Not in the car! What are you, like, three?"

----------------------------------------------

"Scooott! I'm _bored_! How much stuff could we possibly need?"

Scott gripped the frozen goods much the same way as he gripped his patience. "Enough not to have to go out for a few weeks. Grab some broccoli, will you?"

"Ugh," Gordon commented as he handed the cold bag Scott, who tipped it into the trolley. "Aren't we overdoing this just slightly? Last time I checked, the shops weren't closing down for the national crisis." The trolley was full of stuff.

"We may not be welcome in public much longer, Gordon," Scott replied irritably. "Don't you notice these things? There are flyers up all over the place!"

They had been all over the place – anti-psychic rhetoric plastered the walkways and walls all over the complex.

"Scott, they're always up everywhere," Gordon snapped back. "People never took any notice before!"

"They never had to deal with rogue psychic attacks so well known before," Scott dug around in the frozen section for moment. "Don't get snarky with me just because you're bored. It's not really my fault, now is it?"

"Oh, here we go with the high moral tone," Gordon rolled his eyes. "Just give it a rest, why don't you? If Dad couldn't make me feel sorry, you're not even going to get a lick in!"

Scott let out a breath, and gripped his patience harder. This as why John always looked out for Gordon – Scott and Gordon were too much alike; both stubborn, temperamental and righteous. There were definite grounds for clashes.

"I'm not trying to do anything," Scott replied slowly. "But while we're on the subject, you might try giving a moments thought to the kind of effect you've created for yourself. Those guys at the museum know you're a psychic and they know by now that something was done to them, even if they're not sure what. How much do you want to bet that the local anti-psychic crowd has just gotten some new recruits? You know, those groups who say that all psychics are dangerous and criminal? Well what do you know, they haven't been proved wrong. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy, Gordon!"

Gordon flushed angrily. "As if they weren't already future members! I am what I am, Scott. I don't bow my head, I don't apologise, I don't live in shame, not because other people say I should. You should try it some time."

"I don't live in shame," Scott retorted, annoyed.

"Oh no not you, Mr Responsible," Gordon sneered. "You just think being the good boy is the same as living honestly. God forbid you should ever break a rule, no matter how stupid. God forbid you should ever stand up for yourself when people throw stuff at you in the street. No, that would be _rule breaking_, the great sin of Scott Tracy's universe."

"I," Scott replied. "Have found ways to stand up for myself without using my power. Using my voice and my talents and my brain. Of the two of us, I come out smelling better. It takes no brains at all to just roast someone, Gordon. You can do a hell of a lot better than that."

The words his father had said last night came back to Gordon. He felt oddly defused, but he continued. "Maybe. But sometimes you just need people to know what you're capable of. Sometimes you need them to think twice before they mess with you. If you go through life being _nice_ about it, people will just stomp all over you, they won't even think about it in the end. We're _here_ Scott, they should learn to deal with us."

"To deal with people they need to be able to think," Scott pointed out. He felt less irritated now. "You know how hard it is to think when you're afraid? You've got to give people a chance, Gordon."

"I will if they give me one!"

"Gordon," Scott turned to face the red head. "Sometimes you have to do things the hard way – take the first step, try something that you know might fail. If you spend your life waiting for other people to do it for you, you're going to be waiting a very long time."

Gordon shrugged. "Better to wait alive, Scott."

"If you call that living…" Scott trailed off, frowning into the middle distance. "Do you hear something?"

Gordon stared at him. There _was _something….screaming in the distance…

Then, John's frantic presence rushed across their minds.

_**Virgil!**_

------------------------------------------

"How many do you need?" Alan was disbelieving as John tugged out another book to add to the pile.

"You might benefit from a little expenditure in education, Sprout," John smiled at him.

"A little? This is not 'a little', John."

John looked down at the stack in his hands, and looked back up at his staring brother. "I need to have something to do during vacation. You should try thinking ahead sometime; it'd save you from the boredom you always suffer when we go on trips."

"Hah! I always think ahead! It's stopping myself from thinking ahead that's the problem," Alan glared at brightly lit shelves, apparently discomfited.

John looked at his brother tense face. "You're having nightmares again, huh?"

"No," Alan said sullenly. "I'm living a nightmare. I keep seeing it, over and over. Why do I keep seeing it? Once was enough to give me the hint!"

John felt a sense of frightened anger undulate across his heart, but it wasn't his. "The mind doesn't work like that, believe me I know. You can't just switch off trauma like a computer."

"I know that! But I've seen worse – why do I have to keep seeing it? It doesn't help," Alan's hands rearranged books on the shelf distractedly. "We all know how bad it's going to get now, how people are going to hate us. I don't need any more problems! Why can't it just stop messing with me for once?"

"It may not be as bad as you think," John offered. He'd been expecting an outburst like this. Emotional stress from other people always placed a high toll on Alan, who was tuned in permanently to the emotional ambience around him, rarely a barrel of laughs on normal days. "Most people barely notice what's going on in their street, let alone…"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a little kid, John!" Alan nearly yelled, slamming a book on top of a row. "You think I can't tell? You think I don't know what people are starting to think about us? Like I don't notice people flinching every time I look at them? How blind do you think I am?"

"I never said you were blind, or stupid," John replied calmly and quietly. "Only that you might be exaggerating what will happen. Of course people feel strongly about it all now, it only just happened. Things like this tend to fade with time more often than not, that's all I'm saying."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't say it like I can't handle it," Alan replied, disgruntled. "And I'm not so sure it's going to just go away this time. I've seen it…hah! I can see everything. Can't do anything about it, but I can see it," Alan's voice was steeped in bitterness. "What a joke."

"No joke," John gently reached out to shake a shoulder. "Even though you can't stop the bad things, Alan, that doesn't mean that it means nothing when you do predict them. Those people who died," John watched Alan's eyes flicker for a split second, and nodded mentally. Yep, still very upset. "They were important. They were living, breathing people who were killed unfairly. You can't save people, but merely by remembering that they _were_ people and why that is important, you're still doing something for them. And it's okay if it scares you, or upsets you or anything else like that. Terrible as it sounds, it says better about you when you feel that if you felt nothing at all."

"I'm not scared," Alan denied, looking at the floor.

"Yes you are," John retorted. "I know because I am. But that's _okay_ Alan. You'd be completely stupid if you weren't. As long as you're still willing to get up and face the day, then it doesn't matter if you're scared."

"This isn't going to turn into one of Dad's 'its time to grow up' speeches, is it?" Alan asked warily.

John chuckled. "No. But it's still a valid point."

Alan grimaced. "It's so useless. What I do, I mean. I see all these things, but what's the point? I don't _do_ anything."

John put an arm around him. "I'm not so sure about that, Sprout. No one ever knows exactly what's coming – not even you. If you're going through life doing the best you can, then you're doing something right. Come on," he gave a smaller Tracy a shake. "Enough deep philosophy, we've got to go meet the others." Books under one arm, he steered Alan towards the counter.

They both slowed at a display of psychic protection books, which were clearly quite popular today. Titles like '_Psychic Spotter_', '_Survival Guide to Psychics_' and '_Psychic Primer: A Guide to Recognising and Dealing with Psychics_' were towered up in the middle of the store, and already a pile had been sold.

"They make you really angry, John," Alan said as they looked.

John unwrapped his arm from Alan's shoulders and took him by the arm, pulling him away from the display and towards the counter. "I don't like propaganda masquerading as fact," John clarified grimly. "The only thing worse than people knowing nothing is the ones who think they know everything and it's a pack of lies." John took a breath, and let the old annoyance fade away. There was not much point in having a hissy fit over it, not here.

Alan stopped. John felt a tug as his arm was suddenly pulling rather than guiding. "Come on, Alan," John urged gently. "We're late as it is."

No answer.

"Alan?"

"He's going to fall!"

"What?"

"He's going to fall! His head's going to be smashed open! He's going to fall John!" Alan was nearly screaming. John recognised the unfocused murk of a vision in Alan's eyes a split second before he bolted for the store entrance. Everyone in the store was staring at them, and the store security guard was heading toward John with the determined expression of one who intends to use both fists.

John dumped the books in his hands right into the guys arms as he came within range. Startled, the security man reflexively wrapped his arms around them, leaving John free to shoot after Alan.

Out of the store in half a dozen bounds, John whirled frantically, searching the upper walkway for any sign of Alan's blonde head.

The bookstore was on the upper level of the mall. It was a walkway lined quadrangle of storefronts, with overpasses connecting each glass and metal lined side with one another. If you looked over the balcony you could see the four descending levels of the rest of the mall all the way down to the ground floor, shot through with elevator shafts and escalators.

There he was! Alan was frantically moving from one balcony edge to another, pushing through crowds, searching along the glass and brass walled walkways. John sprinted after him, keeping his eyes fixed on the erratically moving golden head.

"Alan, wait!" John cried as he got closer. Diving through a crowd of teens and dodging around a stroller, John managed to snag a hold of Alan's backpack as he crossed another walkway. "Alan whoa, hold it!" He spun his little brother around to face him. The dark bruise on Alan's face from the museum yesterday was a stark shadow, his skin was white as milk. When John touched him, he felt a bolt of pure terror rocket up his spine, almost enough to make him cry out to relieve it. "Alan? What is it?"

You could see the whites of the thirteen year olds eyes. "He's…he's going to fall! I have to find him! He's going to fall!"

"I'll help you," John tried to get inside the wild, hysterical thunderstorm that was his brothers mind, trying to calm his thoughts. "I'll help, but you have to tell me what to do."

"I…he," Alan faltered slightly, and appeared to find his footing again. "There's a kid – a little kid and he's going to go over the balcony wall somewhere."

John found himself looking around hurriedly. "Where? Here? What does he look like?"

"He's small, and has red hair…red like Gordon's, but darker," Alan swallowed convulsively, and John wondered just how much of the boys future he had witnessed.

_His head's going to be smashed open…_

"And he's wearing something blue and his name begins with a G or a J…I don't know where though! All the balcony rails look alike!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," John put both his hands on Alan's shoulders, and bent down so he could look in Alan's eyes. "Let me take a look."

He felt Alan relax his mental barriers enough for things to start flowing out. John couldn't hear the exact words, but he could sense the shapes thoughts and feel the echoes of memories tangle up within his own mind. He looked through eyes much lower to the ground, thought in patterns much more chaotic and spontaneous than his own. It as like a surging, brilliant, focused comet suddenly getting lost and a glowing, psychedelic fireworks display. There, scything painfully across his thoughts was the vision drowning his mind…

…_a boy, young…red…blue…blue clothes… "G-!" "G-!" …the familiar faux brass rail, the same as was all over the place…I wanna see…I wanna see…a sense of gravity, pulling, pulling…a pure, unblemished sea of fear as the ground suddenly rushed close…close…No! Stop! Help! Mommy!...the floor…the dark stain…people around…the dark stain spreading…red…red…redredred…_

John jerked his mind free of Alan's, breathing like he had run a mile. His heart hammered against his chest plate, and the blood rushed in his ears. Adrenaline made him light headed.

No wonder Alan's face was so white. John was sure his was too. Forcing the bile down from the back of his throat, John firmly lead his mind back through the vision, trying to see more details, and sort the visuals from the impressions.

"There was…something…there was a storefront behind the boy when he went over," John said slowly, frowning as he tried to focus the picture in his head. Alan would be more suited to do so, since it was from his head. "Do you know what it was?"

Alan shut his eyes. His lips moved soundlessly as he tried to get a grip on the information. "Saver…saven…savings…sa…vings…There was a giant sneaker behind him…"

"Shoe Savings," John said. He remembered joking with Virgil that one day he'd need the giant plastic promotional sign as a guide for his shoe sizes. Both Scott and Virgil had been able to wear their father's shoes comfortably at twelve. "This way. Let's go!"

Inwardly, John felt even more worried than before. The shoe store was all the way over the other side of the walkway, and a vision with that much detail indicated it was an imminent event.

Both blonde Tracy's sprinted through the crowds, dodging and ducking through groups of shoppers. John tried to calculate which angle he'd seen the boy at, so they'd know which overpass the take to get there.

Detouring onto the overpasses, John and Alan kept a weather eye on the guard rails, constantly scanning the edges for any sign of a tiny, red headed figure.

"There!" Alan was at a balcony edge on the overpass. Directly across from them, across the wide, gaping maw that was open to the floors below, a young mother with a gaggle of children had turned her back on one red-headed six year old, clad in a blue jacket.

The glass walls and brass rails lining the walkways were about five feet high and one smooth piece, designed specifically to keep little bodies (and big ones) from getting over them and ending up a stain on the cosmetics department floor. Usually even an unsupervised child would find it impossible to get up. But today one of the tall square ceramic potted plants had been moved, for whatever reason, close to the balcony wall. Usually they were kept a regulation five feet away, for exactly the reason the red-head kid was demonstrating.

He was at that age where you climb things. Motor control had become more sophisticated and you were curious enough about the word to want to see it from all angles. The little boy had clambered easily enough onto the lip of the square pot while his mother had turned to see to a squealing baby in a stroller and to speak sharply to some older children who were wandering and causing mischief. She had lost sight of her son behind her, who was leaning over the guard rail, the pot tall enough to have half his little body dangling over the side.

"Hey! _Hey!_" Alan yelled to the kid, hands white knuckled on the balcony rail. "Get off of there!"

"Get off!" John added his own voice to the klaxon. "Get down! Hey!" John concentrated "_Get down right now_!"

He put all of the strength into the mental command as he could muster. The kid would have felt it all the way down to the bone.

Startled, the little boy jerked, and tried to back pedal. This action would have rendered him safe until his mother grabbed him, had his tiny foot not twisted and slipped on the pot lip, spinning him sideways to land on the brass railing.

"_No!_" Alan cried.

_Oh no,_ John thought, and frantically stretched his mind out in all directions, trying to find the mothers and get her attention. A flood of white noise slalomed through his frontal lobe and filled his cognitive pathways. In the chaotic, loud babble that nearly drowned John a clear, familiar mental signature emerged.

Disbelieving, John scanned the open levels laid out before him, and saw a familiar spiky dark chestnut head walking along the balcony edge of level one, shopping bags in hand.

The child teetered on the balcony rail for a moment, long enough for his mother to turn round and let out a scream, making a frantic grab for the boy as he slipped forward over the open space.

Lining up every psychic muscle he had, John opened his pathways all the way, and focusing on the signature he knew like he knew his own, let out a mental bellow that would be heard on all frequencies that were the same, or similar.

_**Virgil!**_

-----------------------------------------------

Virgil headed determinedly down to level one on the escalators, passing by the huge cloth banners strung from high glass ceiling to ground marble floor, advertising an all-mall sale of some sort. They hung down every light-well in the place, all the levels of the mall open to a view of the sky through a glass roof, where the sunlight was used for natural illumination.

He was planning to go to the ground floor to meet Scott and the others at the big clock at the entrance. In the bags around his wrists he had the parts he needed to finish the remote controlled helijet camera which he had built from scratch for Shop class, and the processed photos from yesterdays museum jaunt. Virgil grinned as he imagined his father squirming in his chair as they looked them over at home. Maybe he could paint a montage of parts of the display and put it up on the wall. It would drive Dad completely nuts!

Already painting the picture in his mind, Virgil headed absently for the last set of escalators. For some reason they weren't all grouped together, which Virgil had always thought was a particularly sloppy design….

_**Virgil!**_

The metal yell hit Virgil over the head with a sledgehammer. Staggering, shopping bags falling from his hands, Virgil swung around and tried to find John. It had been a frantic, frightened yell.

Scanning his own level with lightening speed, Virgil saw nothing; but his mind was tuning in to John's presence, the familiar psychic sense they all had of each other, even over distances, giving him a direction.

He looked up. There, on the upper storey, he saw his brothers on one of the overpasses.

And on the other, storefront side…

Virgil's heart leapt into his throat as he saw a child teetering over the balcony rails, his mother letting out a scream that echoed all the way down.

Without even allowing for anything more than reflex, Virgil's hands shot out, palms up as the boys went over. There was a _smack…_

And the boy hit a rippling wall about six feet down. Virgil groaned as the eighty pound weight made itself fully known on his brain.

John sighed in utter relief. Virgil had always been quick on the uptake, and thank the gods for that.

But it wasn't over yet – the boy had landed in an awkward position. He was too far down to be hauled back up over the balcony, and too high up to be saved from below. Virgil couldn't move his walls, and he definitely couldn't hold the boy up more than a couple of minutes without brain damage.

"We need to get some rope!" He called to the rapidly gathering crowd. They were too busy staring at the spectacle of the boy lying on an invisible wall in the air to pay him any mind. About to run to get it himself from Lord knows where, his suddenly still-open mind registered more familiar signatures. Peering down he yelled "Scott! Gordon!"

On the ground floor, Scott and Gordon's heads snapped up from where they had been searching for the others.

Scott sucked in a breath as he took in the whole situation. He took in every detail – John and Alan watching from the upper levels, the boy, the positions, Virgil across from him on the next level up, half staggered, and the problems.

Pushing his panic down, Scott's eyes darted from side to side. What did they have to use? Lots of staring people, balloons, storefronts but most of them were clothing, a stage made of felt covered blocks, the red banners dangling from the ceiling…

The plan flashed through him in an explosion of inspiration. "Gordon! Quick! Can you burn through the ropes that hold up the banners from here?"

"What?" Gordon asked, his face pale. "Yeah. But why?"

"We can make it into chute for him to slide down if John and Alan can position the upper end of it under the kid."

"It'll never reach the ground, even held from the upper level," Gordon replied, his quick mind spotting weaknesses with speed. "And that stuff's probably just cheap cloth, it might not hold him."

"You let me worry about that. Do it!" Scott ordered. "Move aside there!" he yelled to the crowd, trying to get a clear path to the exhibition stage. Over at the stage, the large, felt covered blocks that made it began to slide towards them. People darted out of the way, yelling.

_John! John!_ Scott couldn't project his thoughts, but it was easier for John to pick up the thoughts of his family, because, he said, they all thought at similar frequencies.

_Scott! What'll we do?_ John's message came back clear.

_We're going to make a chute out of the banner. I'll direct to you, you and Alan have to position it under him. You'll have to pull on it sharp when he hits it, or you won't stop the momentum. How's Virgil doing?_

_He's not going to be able to hold it. _

Scott cursed. He dragged the blocks closer as quickly as he could, people watching in awe as they bounced into the accident zone. They were sturdy and light, able to be moved around to wherever a celebrity appearance was scheduled in the mall, and were also used for Santa's Workshop in the winter. Now they slid over the marble of there own free will, Scott pushing them with his hands when they got near enough. More followed.

Gordon stood in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed and a fierce scowl on his face. Overhead, the ropes securing the giant banner to the domed glass ceiling started to smoke. Suddenly the fire flared to life, slowly cutting through the hard fibres.

John and Alan sprinted around the open square, ending up next to the sobbing woman and her frightened children, all watching from the guard rail. An enterprising cleaner was trying to get to the child using the long handle of his sweeper, but the pole wasn't long enough, and the sobbing child was not strong enough to grip it if he did get his hands on it. The others all just watched.

The child, on his side, started to squirm, and John felt his tension increase. Virgil was probably having enough trouble as it was, any movement would make it worse.

Alan went straight to the guard rail. "Hey, look over here…what's his name?" He asked the crying woman, and it seemed to startle her out of her panic.

"Gerald…Gerry…that's his name," she stuttered, terrified.

"Hey Gerry! Look over here!" Alan began again, his voice pitched to soothe. Overhead, smoke cast a shadow over the sunlight coming through the glass. The tear stained face turned toward the calm voice.

"Hi Gerry," Alan nodded at him. "My name's Alan. My brothers are going to get you down, so don't be scared. They'll get you down, but you have to not move. Be very still, okay? Like being asleep. Really still. Don't be scared."

Something about the way Alan said it seemed to relax the tension a bit. John knew he was gently trying to turn down the fear dials. The little boy stopped squirming.

"Don't worry," Alan smiled at the boy, and the boy gave a little smile back. "My big brother's are really good at this. Do you have any brothers?"

"I gut t'wee." The little voice replied, still with a lisp.

"Are they older, or younger?"

"I gut two ol'er an' Timmy. Timmy's jus' a baby."

"You're lucky. Mine are all older," Alan grinned and winked at Gerry, who giggled.

"T-that's it Gerry," the mother seemed to break free from her hysteria. "Just s-s-stay still. Be a brave boy, the nice man will get you back."

The cleaner gave up on the broom. "Someone call security and get some rope!" the old man yelled.

Suddenly the banner came fluttering down, still burning at the edges. People screamed as the thing suddenly jerked sideways in the air, pushed towards their side of the balcony by Scott below.

John left Alan with the boy, and ran for the trailing edge, leaning over to catch the warm material at it sailed past. People had backed away, shrieking when they saw the fire, but John turned to them and turned on the mental pressure, stopping them from following their instinct to flee. The mental babble was a powerful river, but it could be directed to a degree.

"Don't run! I need some help here!" he ordered, increasing the power of suggestion in the command. "All of you grab an edge and help me move it."

The cleaner came forward. "Come on you lot, everyone help."

"Yes, please, please save him," the mother begged frantically. Alan gently touched her shoulder, calming her down as the fear in her voice affected her son. The other children were watching silently.

As John quickly pulled the top edge of the canvas banner into position under the boy, he cast an eye over Virgil, who had attracted his own crowd and was wavering on his feet.

He looked down to the ground. _Scott!_

On the ground, Scott and Gordon worked in tandem, piling the boxes up as high as they could in a series of steps at the opposite side of the floor to the boy in the air. Scott looked sharply up at the mental call, clenched his jaw when he saw Virgil starting to fade.

"Gordon! Ready?"

Gordon had clambered on top of the pile. "Ready!"

"Fabulous," Scott said, and forced his spinning head to bear one more time on the dangling banner with its pole weight on the end. He dragged it towards the boxes and Gordon, who was now just high enough to reach it. It stretched down and along the light well, the red-head still hovering above it. It was still a long, steep drop, but it might work.

"Ready!" Scott bellowed. "On three!"

_Scott!_

The mental cry came just as Virgil howled "Scooott!" fell to his knees and lost all focus, nose bleeding like an arterial wound.

To hell with three…

"NOW!"

Up above, the people were panicking, strung up with tension. They hesitated. The mother screamed in terror as little Gerry dropped….

But suddenly Alan's face drained of colour, the fear drained out of the crowd, long enough for John to put everything he had into the command. "PULL!"

They pulled. The sudden tension was enough to hold the boys weight and redirect the fall down the chute.

Down below Scott concentrated as the child tumbled down, holding up the banner and slowing the boy down at the same time. Perched like a catcher, Gordon was at the ready as the child reached the end of the chute, grabbing him and rolling at the same time. Both red heads bounced down the stairs Gordon and Scott had built, landing hard on the marble floor, but just as Scott let the banner go, Gordon shakily sat up, his arms full of sobbing but very much alive six year old.

Silence bloomed out of the crowds, watching at all levels. The only sound was Gerry's sobbing, and the dropped banner undulating to the ground level. Suddenly there was a rising murmur, a susurration of awed voices filling the air. Then there was a cheer, small claps at first, but it soon rose to a triumphant din.

The next few minutes were a complicated mess. Scott shot up to the upper levels to see to Virgil, who was curled up on the floor, bleeding heavily and clutching his head. Scott had wanted him to stay still, but he had risen stubbornly, face and shirtfront bloodstained and had nearly fallen onto Scott who had steadied him and gently supported him down the escalator to where Gordon waited, still holding the child, watching worriedly.

John, one arm firmly around Alan, had gotten the boys family into an express elevator and had ridden down with them. The mother didn't look at him all the way down.

Security arrived at the moment of the happy reunion - not mall security but real beat cops who had come in armed, and in a moment of misunderstanding of the 10-98 code (Psychic Assault Situation), had assumed it was a hostage situation and had drawn their guns on a startled Gordon, demanding the release of the child. Gordon had carefully put the boy down, and raised his hands, as did the rest of the Tracy's.

Their tags had been very visible at that point. The talking and muttering had gotten louder. But the mother of Gerry, once she had gotten over hugging and rocking him, had tentatively spoken up for the Tracy boys, telling them that they had been saving her son.

Their tags and ID's had been checked, and in the street the PRA vans had appeared…

-----------------------------------------------

Shiny shoes clipped down the green plastic vinyl corridor, and their sound was as precise as the man who walked in them. He was a neat, smooth, dandified little man, bald as an egg, but that only accentuated his aquiline face. His head was slightly large for his short, spry body, putting people in mind of a pin. He marched up the corridor, expensive grey suit out of place in this yellow and green institutionalised centre. Around him, PRA officers worked in tiny offices under the harsh neon lights.

He finally reached the end of the corridor, which opened out into room filled with metal benches tables, filled with PRA guards, who were talking and drinking coffee. To the left, a glass panelled office denoted a K.D. Larsen as the captain of the squad in black letters, and in front was a long, hard counter, preceding an armoured glass door, backed by iron bars. Behind that door, you could see a similar door beyond, and another beyond that. Serious locks and electric ID plates barred them.

The guards all looked up at this short little fop who had walked so calmly into their midst. He ignored them. Instead he headed to the counter, where a guard sat behind a glass panel, reading a magazine. The man looked up as well, and off to the side, the Captain had emerged from his office to see what was going on.

"My name if Rodolphus Erbehart," the neat little man announced, a faint blocky accent marking him as a probable former German citizen. "I am here to collect Scott, John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan Tracy."

The guard began sorting through a pile of paperwork, one hand reaching out to tap a few codes into the computer. Behind, murmurs rose.

"Says here their next of kin is Jeff Tracy, father," the guard at the counter read off the screen. "Why isn't he here?"

"Mr Tracy is unable to come here to release his sons. I am authorised in his stead," Erbehart replied calmly and distinctly.

"They must be a dangerous lot if their own father doesn't want them out," Captain Larsen commented to some of his guards. There were chuckles.

"If you had bothered to read the file rather than just glance at it, Captain Larsen," Erbehart didn't even turn around. "Then you may have noticed that Jeff Tracy has a ten digit code next to his name, meaning he too is a gifted individual. And as you must well know, psychic with power level of three or above cannot be released into the care of another psychic. They can only be released into the care of a certified, non-gifted, guardian who has been checked and tested by the PRA every year for their competence and psychological fitness to handle high level gifts." Erbehart gave a tiny, neat smile. "We are all servants of the law, are we not? Mr Tracy could hardly flaunt that by coming in person. As Mr Tracy's attorney, I was given guardianship for legal and release matters, which is also on the file. Which you really should have read."

Captain Larsen flushed, unable to understand how this exact, pedantic lawyer had heard him. The tall man strode up to look down at the little dandy, who nevertheless managed to convey that it was Captain Larsen who was being looked down on. "Authorised or not, we're not finished with them yet. There's evidence that they may have forced the boy up onto the ledge in the first place, and we have yet to investigate the matter fully." He sneered in Erbehart's serene, aquiline face.

Erbehart didn't look around at the room when he spoke, but he managed to make it seem as if he had when he said: "I'm sure your officers are so swamped with work that they have been unable to be their normal forthright selves in investigating the matter." The words rolled out over the guards, who were all drinking coffee, reading magazines or eating. This was a PRA branch office, and there weren't, as Jeff had said, a high ratio of psychics in the country. There was an uncomfortable silence, in which Captain Larsen glared at the little man before him.

Aplomb, Erbehart continued. "However, happily your workload may be lessened on this particular case," Erbehart opened his neat briefcase, and took out an ordered file. "Witness statements, police reports, testimony from the boy, his mother, and several credible eyewitnesses' reports as to the exact nature of the incident. Also, a signed affidavit from the head of the police investigation unit stating that there are no charges being brought against the gentlemen by the people involved, and that none had been levied by the police in the first place, which makes their presence in your holding facility somewhat an enigma." The tiny smile was back. "I have bought their files, birth certificates, my authorisation of release and a judicial order for their release. If you could please organise the release papers post haste, I will leave your squad to complete their important work."

"Hang on, you can't…" Captain Larsen stared at the documents, all legal, binding documents. The guard in the glass panel looked from the small lawyer to his supervisor, uncertain. Captain Larsen looked over the papers, face sour as a lemon. "Fine. Chilt, prepare the release papers." He shoved the files back into the lawyers hands. "I suppose we're about to see a suit or something because we've violated the rich brats' right to sneeze."

"I have no such intention, Captain," Erbehart replied with unshakable calm. "While their incarceration may be questionable, I have no doubt you followed proper procedure. However," he added, closing his case with a snap. "If I were to learn of any violations, mistreatment or brutality on the part of your officers, then there is one certainty in life I will be able to make." He actually looked at Captain Larsen for the first time, and his gimlet eyes made Captain Larsen lean back. "Neither you nor any of your squad will ever draw a pay check from the PRA again. Now, Captain, the release papers, if you please. And I wish to see the young gentlemen as well."

It took two minutes to actually get through the outer doors, with its complex multi-lock securing systems. It took three officers just to get them all open in a complicated ceremony. It was to keep all sorts types of psychic gift caged in.

The cells were drab and too bright. There was a constant, annoying buzz coming from all the walls, white noise to break up concentration. The cells were multilayered, bars, glass and plastic, so that telekinetics, metallugiopaths and pyrokinetics would all have difficulty getting out with any speed. On the wall, Psy-Blocker helmets hung from the walls, tasers and tranquilisers. They were there to be seen. They said 'we can get nasty if we want, and your power won't help you'.

And there, thankfully were the fully awake Tracy boys. Scott was sitting ramrod straight on a bench, and Virgil was lying along it, his head resting on Scott's lap. Gordon was across from them, pacing in his own cell, since he was still a minor. Neither John nor Alan were in any of the cells.

"Mr Erbehart!" Scott spotted him instantly.

"Finally!" Gordon spun to face them too.

"Greetings," Erbehart nodded to them. "Are any of you in need of immediate medical attention? Virgil?"

"A medic at the scene shot him up with a blood thinner to relieve the pressure," Scott reported, his hand on Virgil's forehead. "His nose stopped bleeding hours ago."

"I feel better, Mr Erbehart," Virgil's eyes opened, and he slowly turned his head towards the lawyer, face pallid. "I'm not seeing double anymore, and I just have a headache now."

Erbehart nodded. "Gordon, Scott? How about you?" he asked gently.

"I'm all cramped up," Scott replied, shifting stiffly. "But I'm okay. Gordon needs some food soon, though."

"Ugh, definitely," Gordon agreed wholeheartedly.

It wasn't a joke. Gordon skin had yellowed, he was clearly suffering from deficiencies. Erbehart dug around in his case again.

"When did you last eat young man?"

"Breakfast," Gordon groaned. "About fourteen hours ago."

Erbehart's lips thinned as he turned to face Captain Larsen and his guards. "I would hate to think you're men weren't up to scratch with regards to psychic care, Captain Larsen." He pulled a foil wrapped bar out of his case. "Surely you know that pyrokentics ultra-fast metabolism requires that they are regularly given sustenance?"

He strode over to the bars, and pushed back the flap meant to admit food.

"Hey, you can't…"

"It's merely an energy bar, Captain," Erbehart interrupted. "And they're being released, so I see no problem in breaking procedure."

Gordon lunged eagerly on the morsel, ripping the foil with his teeth. "Thanks Mr Erbehart." He wolfed it down. It should keep his sugar and mineral levels stable until he could have a proper meal.

"Where are John and Alan?" he asked Scott, searching for the blonde section of the Tracy family.

"When they first bought us in, Alan started experiencing some blow back from absorbing some of the panic from the crowd. He started having a panic attack, so they put him in the isolation bin down the back." Scott head jerked toward the corridor past the cells. "He couldn't calm down, so John asked to be put in with him. They haven't told us anything since." Scott glared bloody murder at the guards.

"I'll see to them. Captain," Erbehart turned to the frustrated officer. "I expect these gentlemen to be released from their cells by the time I get back. I need a guard to open the isolation bin as well. Now."

And then he strode down the corridor toward it.

Weaving through a light trap, Erbehart was followed by a young officer with a set of keys. This door at the end of it, plain wood, had only one lock. Psychics who ended up in here were usually too far gone to attack anyone. On the door were red warning signs, including one cautioning that people knock and announce themselves before entering to prevent startlement of potentially unstable psychics.

Erbehart knocked. "John? Alan?"

"Mr Erbehart?" John's voice came from inside.

"Is it safe for me to come in? I've come to collect you."

"Yeah, you can come in. Are the others okay?" John sounded relieved.

Erbehart gestured to the guard, who unlocked the door and stepped well back.

Erbhart's nose wrinkled as he entered. It wasn't squalor, but it certainly wasn't a pleasant place to be in. Random stains dotted the padded walls and floors, the buzz was invasive and the lights white and glaring. There was no furniture. At the back, John sat with his back against the wall, arms around Alan who was leaning on his shoulder. They were both as white as snow, John was blinking past a bad headache, and Alan's eyes were tired and dull.

"The others are fine. Are you alright?" Erbehart scrutinised them closely.

"We're okay, aren't we Sprout?" John gently shook Alan, who appeared to wake out of his trance.

"Hi Mr Erbehart," he said tiredly. "Is Dad here?"

"He's waiting outside, Alan. Let's go, shall we?"

He hustled them back out to the main cell block, where they were greeted by the three others, now freed from the cells. Erbehart took care of the forms and signed the releases while John gently cupped Virgil's face to check how bad the damage was while he leaned on Scott, and Gordon gently ruffled Alan's hair, whispering jokes about not even getting a prison tattoo, which made Alan crack a smile.

In fits and starts, they managed to get outside the PRA holding facility, Scott moving like a clockwork toy as he forced his stiff muscles and rusty joints to move, Virgil still shaky on his feet, John shielding his face from the harsh lights, Gordon sagging with exhaustion from low blood sugar and Alan having the shakes.

Erbehart lead them out the doors, where Jeff was pacing anxiously next to the corporate van. His boys had been in lock up for six hours, and he had felt every second of it. Overhead, the night sky sparkled with stars.

"Boys!" Jeff shot towards them as they stumbled into view. "Are you all okay? You're all alright?" Frantically he checked each one of them over. He gently touched Virgil's grey face and put a hand on the back of Scott's tense neck. "Come on, we're going home. Dr Dyson is waiting to give you all a once over." He herded then towards the car, and climbed in the back to be with them. Randall was up front in the drivers seat. He waved to the boys.

"Our stuff…" Virgil mumbled as he was gently tucked into a seat.

"Your things were taken to the police evidence lock up," Erbehart explained, giving Alan a hand up into the van to Jeff. "I'm going there now to collect them and to issue gag orders. I'll drop them off tomorrow morning, Mr Tracy."

"Thanks Rod," Jeff said wholeheartedly. "I appreciate it. And thank you for taking care of the boys."

Erbehart smiled. It was a big, generous smile. "It was no concern at all, Mr Tracy. Take care boys, or my wife will hunt me down and demand why I'm not taking better care of you."

They laughed.

-------------------------------------------

It was now midnight, and Jeff was exhausted to the bone. Dr Dyson had given then a thorough examination, even packing a portable brainwave matrix to check for internal damage. The results had been relieving. He had prescribed a strong muscle relaxant for Scott, who could barely move, a mild painkiller for Virgil's headache. When the news had come on insinuating that psychics had thrown a boy off a walkway, John had actually thrown a glass against a wall, his volatile brain chemistry causing a sudden mood swing. He had calmed down almost instantly, completely embarrassed, and Dr Dyson had said that there was nothing to worry about; if he could calm down so quickly, then the imbalances weren't severe and it was probably already righting itself. Gordon ate every left over in the house, and Dr Dyson declared his blood sugar low but not critical. Alan was given a quick check, and the doctor, an expert on psychic care, recommended he stay away from crowds or tense situations until his mental barriers had been reformed.

He had left saying to call if any of them took a turn for the worse.

Jeff had told his sons that they would all be staying home tomorrow, and that they would all be bunking in the lounge tonight. The close contact would help.

So here they were. Gordon and John were sitting up on one couch, leaning on each other as they dozed. Virgil was stretched out on the floor wrapped in a futon, and Alan had been put in next to him, because Virgil's exhaustion would seep though to Alan and ensure a dreamless sleep. Scott was stretched out like a plank on the other couch, his head pillowed on a cushion on Jeff's lap.

The lights were dim, the street was quiet. And no one was sleeping just yet.

Scott eventually popped the question. "So. Are you very mad?"

One of Jeff's eyes opened and he looked down at his eldest son, who was looking at him warily. The others hadn't moved, but Jeff could tell from the attentive silence that they were all listening in.

Jeff sighed. "Am I always that much of an ogre?"

He saw Gordon chuckle. "Oh, what an opening…"

John sniggered from where his cheek was pressed into Gordon's hair.

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Jeff parried.

"Are you?" Alan's sleepy voice emerged from the floor.

Virgil's head moved so he could hear better. "We did kind of do what you said not to do. Ever." The middle Tracy threw his two cents in.

"No, I'm not mad," Jeff replied softly. "I'm proud. I'm so very proud of all of you," he ruffled Scott's hair affectionately. "You saved a life today. You kept your heads, and worked together, and you did the right thing even though it was hard for you. It's the way gifts _should_ be used. I bet there would be a lot less flyer hangers and protest rallies if people got to see more of what they saw today – psychics saving people. Well done, all of you. Well done."

"We're da man," Gordon summarised to general amusement.

"Men," John corrected conscientiously.

"Boys," Jeff clarified further. "And don't be too quick to jump around Gordon, you're still on wood chopping duty."

"No way…" Gordon muttered to a background of chuckles.

"There's always a catch," Alan agreed.

Jeff smiled, and let the comfort of his boys gathered around him safe and sound take him into sleep.

----------------------------------------------------

End Part IV


	5. The Last Normal Day

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds does not belong to the author of this fic, and is a non-profit work.

Warnings: Violence, bad language, adult themes.

Authors Notes: I know I'm running a bit late with this chapter – I usually try to be more punctual. However, between my job and a heat wave that knocked out my modem on the weekend, this chapter has lagged a bit.

Never mind, I managed to get it out in the end.

It's about to get darker for the Tracy boys. You've been warned.

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Part V – The Last Normal Day

_In which there is – A Mode Set –Fermat Should Know Better – Telling Scott and Lady Penelope – The Chains – Trapped – Scott's Doubt – Wood Chopping – the Head Tyrant – Gordon Suspects – A Parting – Alan's Dread – Get Fermat – Hiltons Humbugs – Palton – Falling in the Sky - Invaded – the Last Normal Day_

-----------------------------------------

There was a conversation that was destined to set the mode for the rest of the adventure, turning it from a secret act of injustice into a public quandary which echoed to the corners of the world.

If anyone had known it at the time, it might have gone differently.

It went something like this.

"It's been set up, sir. Teams Alpha and Charlie are being positioned, Team Beta will assist with the transport... Sir? There might be a problem."

"What?"

"Recon team says there is a lot of citizen activity around. It's helping the teams hide, but it might cause a problem when the action starts. Do you want them cleared from the area?"

"No. Leave them. They are a useful cover and can be used as a deniability tool later, if necessary."

"But they could get in the way."

"Nothing important will get in our way. We've taken on the most dangerous people in the world. A few banner wavers won't be a problem for the men to control. Besides, their presence will be helpful in ensuring that they don't escape. Set it for tonight, but before dark. The dark will be an ally for them."

"Yes, Sir."

And that was it, more or less. Nothing profound, nothing even original. But it was the tiny choices that determine the nature of an event.

Mr Fenill wasn't thinking that at the time, and he never really considered it later, except that it had been a mistake, and maybe a fortunate one.

What he really remembered about this particular conversation, he was to say later, was that it was the first time he felt the twinge of unease he would feel from them on out.

---------------------------------------------

He probably should have known better.

Fermat was exceptionally intelligent. That meant he understood the tensions and fears suddenly rising around him like a new range of mountains. He knew that the people in the lab knew he was a psychic. He also knew that Mr Palton, his Dad's superior, was very interested in it.

Fermat wasn't concerned about all that. His Dad took care of him, and Fermat knew they would be leaving the compound soon, so none of that matters.

He should have at least considered the possibility.

But the pulse and tingle of the lab machines was beguiling, the fascinating rush and pull of the electrics through the mechanisms, the boiling, shifting data of the computers, flooding data this way and that. And besides, he always came in here after school.

So, as he sat down at his father's workstation and began tinkering with the bits and pieces he found there, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere, it never occurred to him that this was not a normal day.

He probably should have known better.

--------------------------------------------------

"So," finished Jeff. "There you have it."

Scott and Lady Penelope both stared at him in disbelief. The silence was heavy as lead.

"And you are sure," Lady Penelope responded with careful slowness. "That the effects of this device are valid? It is a genuine article?"

"I saw the tapes, Penny," Jeff replied, wishing he hadn't. "No three year old fakes that kind of suffering. Young Fermat was well on the way to fugue and insanity, and probably brain death. One year later he's healthy enough to walk and talk and act normally. I worked with Brains for over a year with Fermat in the design lab with us, and I never suspected a thing. It works, trust me. The only thing Brains didn't test was its scope – he doesn't know if it works on internal types of power – both he and his son were external types and his wife wasn't gifted."

"So, it might not work for say, a clairvoyant, or an empath," Scott theorised from the couch. He sat forward, hands gripped over his knees, face intent.

"Or a telepath, bestiopath, nauscoper, psychometrist…it hasn't been fully tested, but Brains said that he recorded no side effects when he used it on himself. He once wore it for a straight month, to test its long term effects. Nothing chronic," Jeff had had enough time before yesterday's crisis to go over the technical details with the scientist. He'd been impressed. "And Brains is an expert in his field. Fields. If it doesn't work, then he will find a way to make it."

"It's incredible," Scott breathed, an engineer's son in the bone. "Dad, can you imagine what could be done with this?"

"Yes, Scotty, I know," Jeff smiled.

"Jeff," Lady Penelope was less enthused. "Are you sure this is the safest area to be involved in at the moment? With the situation in the US being what it is, I sincerely doubt this device will be greeted warmly nor used intelligently."

"There's that too," Jeff grimaced theatrically. "But he came looking for my help and it would have been callous, not to mention stupid, to turn him away. The PRA has nothing concrete, or they would have already requested a governmental control order for the thing. It's now under the umbrella of Tracy Corp, and most politicians won't want to take on such a big money maker."

"Still, Jeff," Lady Penelope persisted. "I believe the good doctor will soon be in the middle of quite a controversy. With the growing unpopularity of the gifted in America, I am unsure of how much concern people will have with a company's investment rights over safety from psychics. Besides, they wouldn't need the patent if Brains agrees to cooperate with them."

"Will he do that?" Scott asked, suddenly serious.

"No," Jeff shook his head. "At least, not unless he's under duress. And they do have ways, I know that," Jeff added darkly.

"Can we get him out of the country?" Scott asked.

Jeff grinned slightly. Scott could certainly get to the heart of the matter in a straight line. "What do you think, Penny?"

Penny tilted her head. Behind her on the view screen, the English countryside shone through tall diamond panelled windows under a clear English moon. "Well, Brains' qualifications as a scientist would give him quite a bit of grounds for a successful bid for asylum. Unfortunately, no one defects from the US. They'd want to know why he would do so, and depending on public opinion the device may not end up in better hands. You must understand Jeff," Lady Penelope stated. "That's its rather bad all round for psychics anywhere you go, at the moment."

Jeff sighed.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" Jeff called.

"Hi Dad," Gordon poked his head around the door. "Alan says there's another bunch of flyer hangers hanging around. He says he can feel them up and down the street."

"Again?" Jeff had woken up in the morning to find his youngest son fidgeting anxiously on the window seat of the front parlour. When asked why he was up, Alan had said he had felt the solid malice of anti-psychic soldiers loitering near the house. Jeff had led him back to the lounge and cajoled him into a few more hours more sleep. "How close?"

Gordon shrugged. "Just…around, he said. Not too close. Want me to go out to look?"

"No," Jeff forbade firmly. "Don't even think about it. Just let it be, they're not anything more than a nuisance."

Gordon nodded. He turned his face toward the view screen. "Hey Lady P," he waved to the Lady in pink. "How's it hanging?"

"That is not for you to know, young man," Lady Penelope parried archly. She gave him a sly grin. "Not getting into any trouble lately, I hope?"

Gordon's eyes were wide and innocent. "Who, me?"

Scott snorted. "Don't get him started, Lady Penelope," he commented sardonically.

"Please," Jeff added.

"You know, I'm feeling distinctly unloved around here," Gordon huffed, full of unjust injury, while Lady Penelope laughed.

"Dad," Gordon continued, in a beguiling tone which got Jeff's attention. "Can Alan and I use the ADSL to…"

"No," Jeff denied.

"But, Dad!" Gordon protested plaintively. "We watched TV this morning!"

"Just the news, and that was because you were in it," Jeff pointed out, unmoved.

"And quite well done too," Lady Penelope gave Gordon a prideful smile.

"See, we're heroes," Gordon leapt onto the new argument, loftily ignoring Scott's cynical snort.

"Gordon," Jeff cut in patiently. "You. Are. Grounded. One act of bravery doesn't undo the recklessness of what you did in the museum, it only highlights the idiocy of it. And before you argue with me, keep in mind that you are not living in a democracy, you're living in a tyranny and I am the head tyrant." Pretending not to hear Gordon mutter 'you got that right', Jeff continued. "My word is the law. You and Alan can study, or you can read. Since you both have subjects where your grades can be improved and exams are coming in a few weeks, maybe you should take the opportunity to do some heavy revision. If you don't like those options, then there's plenty of wood out there to chop."

Gordon sighed, resigned. "Yeah, yeah. I get it."

"Good. Where are your brothers?" Jeff asked.

"John's reading in the kitchen, Alan's in our room. Studying," Gordon grimaced theatrically. "And Virgil's playing the piano, like he's been doing for the last three straight hours." Faintly, in the distance, quiet chamber music played.

Which mean must still be feeling the effects from yesterday. Virgil always played to chase away sicknesses and hurts.

A memory suddenly poked at Jeff. Ah, yes… "Get them all in here, Gordon, I've got to do something before I forget."

"Okay," Gordon shot him a curious glance and backed out.

It didn't take long to pile the rest of the Tracys in. They all gave Lady Penelope, smiling from the view screen, various greetings and chit chat while they all fought over where to sit. Jeff, meanwhile, had opened his briefcase, which had been delivered by Randall about an hour ago, not two minutes after Mr Erbehart had left after delivering the boys things from the police evidence locker and giving Jeff a run down of their legal positions. So far, no charges had been bought. The mother seemed more interested in suing the mall complex.

After a certain amount of brotherly tussle and rank pulling, Virgil and John snagged the other seats on the study couch, and the other two were relegated to the floor.

"Hello boys," Lady Penelope greeted them with a warm smile. "If I'd known I was going to meet the heroes of the week, I would have dressed for the occasion."

She got sheepish grins from the lot of them.

Jeff withdrew a leather and velvet box that looked like a high class jewellery case. "I went to the bank yesterday morning to get these, and I better give them to you before anything else happens." There was an odd shade of resigned certainty in his voice that made his sons blush and Lady Penelope giggle behind a hand.

He opened the case and inside was, indeed, jewellery. Fanned out on the inner cushioning were five silver chains, each with their own small, milky pendant. "I want you to wear these wherever you go. This way if anything should happen, I'll know exactly where to find you."

His sons all gathered round to take one, examining each shiny piece.

"How?" Alan asked, turning his over in his hands. "Is it made of some kind of rare metal only you can find?"

"No," Jeff grinned and the fanciful idea. "It has more to do with the homing device planted in the connecting loop, here." Jeff tapped the head of the pendant, while Alan flushed under his brothers smirks. "It's small but powerful enough to transmit to the satellites."

"Necklaces?" Virgil commented sceptically. "Why not watches, or something?"

"I thought about it, but the mechanisms would interfere with one another. Besides," Jeff shrugged. "I needed something that could remain inconspicuous – you can wear these under your clothes. Your wrists are checked at every checkpoint, and they would notice you all wearing the same thing and get suspicious."

Suddenly he stood up, able to tower over his boys, or at least look them in the eye. "Now listen to me, boys. When I say all the time I mean _all the time_. Don't take them off, not for any reason. I'm giving Penny the transmitting codes, so if I'm not able to find you, she can. If something goes wrong – and don't think it won't, because it might – and I can't get to you, I need you all to stick together and try to get to New York as quickly as possible. The jet is there and its fuelled to get you to London. If I'm not there," Jeff's eyes passed over Scott. "I need you to just go. Understand? Most of us safe is better than none of us."

His boys were silent and grim. Scott's face was tense. He knew what his father was asking. In Jeff's absence, Scott had to make the decision.

"Are you sure about this, Dad?" John spoke softly. "This is the way it should be done?"

"There's not a lot of other ways open to us."

Lady Penelope sighed dramatically. "There is no creature on Earth prone to more melodrama and pessimism than the human male," she cut in, exasperated. "_Relax_, gentlemen. These have been given to you for help in a possibility, _not_ defence in a certainty. Do try to remember that before you bolt the bomb shelter door completely, will you? It is quite unbecoming to be so depressive."

There was a moment of embarrassed amusement.

"All right Penny, I can take a hint," Jeff sat back down again. "She's right, boys. This is just in case. A pinch of prevention, a bit of common sense, nothing more. After we're all on vacation and this has all blown over, we'll probably never use them again. Just be sensible, and it'll be fine." He smiled at his sons, trying to instil a bit of confidence.

Gordon turned the pendant over in his hands. "This thing isn't going to keep me any safer, you know," he complained. "If the guys as school see me wearing this, I'm going to be a patch of human pulp."

The tension vanished. Scott rolled his eyes. "Inconspicuous, Gordon? Remember? That means you wear it so they'll never know."

"Have you ever met Brady and his cronies? They can spot an embarrassing problem at half a mile. It's their one talent!"

"It really is," Alan groaned, clutching his own chain.

"He must just _feed_ off you two then," Virgil commented slyly.

"I'm honestly surprised he needs to get within half a mile," John added innocently, eyes a twinkle.

"He only picks on us because everyone knows you shouldn't pick on complete nut bars like you," Alan retorted. "You never know when that next psychotic break will come."

"Maybe he just knows easy targets when they present themselves. And most mental illnesses run though whole families, you know."

"You're a fine one to talk about good mental health, you flight-obsessed freak!"

"Web-footed bottom feeder!"

"Now Scott, you know those webs disappeared by the time he turned three."

"Can't same the same about your teeth, brace-face!"

"Or the zits."

"Says the one who still needed a night light at seven."

"Bookworm geek. You and the machine nerd."

"Hey, what'd I do you gear-head?"

"You didn't stick up for us, you workshop jerk!"

"He knows what side to pick, squidy."

"Don't put words in my mouth, fly-boy!"

Jeff looked over at Lady Penelope as his sons went all in for a knock down, drag out slanging match.

"Maybe it's not too late to exchange them for a refund," he said, his tone deadpan.

Lady Penelope laughed long and hard.

------------------------------

This was how it worked.

The technopath can rewire their own biological electric system so that it aligns to the frequencies and impulses around them to such an exquisite degree that when the currents flowed out of them they could override the machines, slowly but surely, becoming the commanding pulse, over taking its programming. The same way, they can translate the impulses lightning fast inside their own minds, piecing together data and commands from the zero-one pulses zapping through.

There were problems, of course. Messing with the electrical impulses of the brain, reworking them to fit a non moving, non feeling machine, could render certain parts inactive. Consciousness became what the machines impulses were doing. Sight got sharper, but other senses – smell, taste, almost disappeared. The central nervous system was all wired to the movement of data through the machines, it was rendered useless for moving the body. Sometimes, if the rush of data was powerful enough it became like a current, hard to escape. The more exquisite the machine, the harder the brain was to re-set back to a thinking, feeling human.

When the other people in the lab had asked Fermat to delve into Palton's central systems to look for the presence of a virus, he'd been happy to try. He knew his Dad didn't like him showing off his ability, but his Dad wasn't here – which was a bit strange. Fermat had left early for school, and hadn't seen his father, which wasn't unusual. But he was usually here in the afternoons, spending quality time with his whiteboards and test tubes, and his son, going over what he'd done that day.

His Dad had left early yesterday afternoon. He said he had a meeting with someone. Fermat reckoned Dad had gotten a new job somewhere, but his father wasn't saying where – he could be like that sometimes, forever trying to give his son a few surprises. The wonder of childhood was a bit difficult for a young genius to find at times, Dad knew that.

He'd concentrated – sounds and smells had disappeared as his brain began its complex reworking to fit the systems. He'd had to go a lot deeper, make the changes much more complex than he thought as no virus appeared. The slight pull slowly started to become a current. The parts of Fermat's brain that made him Fermat were pushed further back.

Eventually he dragged himself back though the pathways – there was nothing here. He went through the entrance program that would take him to the access interface – his exit door.

But it didn't work. Instead of being able to pull out of the system, he was plunged back into the current. He tried again. He was plunged back. He tried again. Every time he went through the access, the data seemed to loop around, the impulses changing randomly, the tangled mess of unfamiliar data and systems blocking any view of his exit door.

Frightened, he spread out along the system, looking for anything he recognised. Nothing. He was just being rolled in an overwhelming current of random pulses, no point of reference to be found, looped back through a system endlessly.

He was falling in the dark, less and less aware as he went.

Around him the lab technicians worked feverishly to minutely change the system and pour more information on it.

"Sir," one technician wavered, looking anxiously into the boys slack face as he slumped over in the cubicle. "Um…are you sure…"

"Your job is not to argue," her supervisor cut in sharply. "Your job is to work. You just keep rewriting the system so he stays as is. Mr Paltons orders."

"But…he's just a kid..."

The other technicians were watching their screens, their fingers still. There was a silence as conscience battled with fear.

"Any of you don't like it, you can walk out the door," the supervisor shrugged callously. "The boy won't be harmed, we just have to keep him here. Mr Paltons orders," he repeated, like it was some sort of compensation.

The technicians bent back to their work – they were overworked, underpaid and if you were fired by Mr Palton, he could be a vindictive reference on your resume.

Oblivious, Fermat lay unmoving, his mind tangled and lost in the machines.

-----------------------------------------------

"I think we should leave now, Dad," Scott said as he perched on the desk.

It was getting on to late afternoon. The Tracy boys were all over the place, doing their own thing, and Jeff was holed up in his study, working.

Jeff looked at his son speculatively. "Sorry to put the pressure on you, son."

Scott sighed. "I can make the decision, Dad. I just don't want to have to."

"I know you can. There's no one else I'd trust to do it," Jeff replied firmly. "And I don't want you to have to either, but if we start running now, we night never be able to come back. Eyes are looking at us, Scott. We're powerful psychics, of course they'll be thinking of us when they think of a high-level attack. Disappearing now would turn us into suspects. You boys are already stifled enough, I don't need you to be international fugitives as well."

Scott grimaced at the quandary they found themselves in. "Can't leave, can't stay. There must be something we can do."

Jeff threw down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "We're sitting on a powder keg, Scott. One false move and we'll be annihilated. But if we don't do anything stupid, we should be fine. There's nothing for them to pin on us, and they've had limited control over us for the last four years."

Scott remembered that. He'd never forget four years ago.

"Just be you, Scott," Jeff advised gently. "If I didn't think you were up to it, I wouldn't leave you in charge as much as I do. I just need you to do what you've always done Scott – take care of the family. You've done a fantastic job so far. It's not the life I would have chosen for you, but you've made me proud nevertheless."

"Dad, I don't mind it," Scott replied, blushing lightly at his father's praise.

"No," Jeff said grimly. "But you should have other options if you want them." Jeff shook himself. "That's a problem for another time, though. Just be sensible, Scott, I have faith in you."

"Just as long as one of us does," Scott commented gloomily, almost to himself.

Jeff opened his mouth to chastise his son for lack of confidence, when the phone rang at him.

"Tracy," he answered it abruptly.

Scott watched his father's face transform into worry as he listened to the one side of the call he could here. "Sorry, what?...what?...I can't understand…" suddenly Jeff's eyes narrowed. "Brains, is that you? What's wrong?"

-----------------------------------------

_Chop. Chop. Plink._

Breathing hard, Gordon leaned on the long handled axe as Alan moved to pile the next lot of kindling onto the barrow. The next lot was Alan's to chop while Gordon piled.

"We live in a world of electricity, gas, solar, laser transmits, and under earth heat absorbers. Why do we still have a fireplace?" Gordon commented to no one in particular.

The no one in this case was Alan. He piped up. "Because Dad likes it. It reminds him of the fire place at the farm."

Gordon rotated his shoulders, trying to relieve the ache. "So why do we chop our own wood? There are people who can do a quart in, like, two minutes with a buzz saw."

"Because Dad likes to have self chopped stuff," Alan huffed as he rolled the chopped stuff to the wood box.

"So why do we…"

"Because Dad likes it," Alan pre-empted him as he tumbled the last of the wood into the box.

Gordon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You couldn't have known what I was going to say," he said accusingly.

"I don't have to. Most things boil back to 'because Dad likes it that way' around here," Alan shrugged.

"The head tyrant," Gordon muttered under his breath. He tilted his head this way and that, cracking the joints. "I _hate_ this job."

"Well, I was happy studying until you got bored with it," Alan pointed out, annoyed. "We can always go back inside."

Gordon grinned at him. "You? Want to study? You're not turning into another geek are you?"

"No," Alan said hotly. "But it's better than this."

"Then why come out here?" Gordon was still grinning.

"Something about you threatening to put my kiddie pictures on the 'net might have had something to do with it," Alan muttered irritably. He looked at Gordon. "Why do you want to be out here, anyway? Dad's not forcing you."

Gordon shrugged, and readied another stump on the chopping block. "I am sick of chamber music, text books and John being enigmatic," he growled. "There's something going on here, Sprout. There all planning something and we're being left out, as usual." Gordon swung the axe with unnecessary force, sending a long splinter whirring off the side.

Alan watched him warily. "It's not like that's anything new, Gordon."

"Hey, it's our lives! We have a right to know," Gordon swung the axe again, splitting the wood stump neatly. "But nooo, they have to go off and had secret meeting while we do all the work around here!"

"Secret?" Alan replied. "Dad came in and asked Scott, John and Virgil in for a word in private. It wasn't exactly secret."

"They didn't invite us in," Gordon's resentment would not be stemmed. "So," he asked Alan in an inquiring tone. "What's the low-down on Radio Emotive?"

Alan threw down a few more bits of kindling. "I _knew_ there was a reason you got me out here!"

"Come on, Sprout," Gordon wheedled. "Throw me a bone here. You know what's going on, don't try to tell me you haven't been keeping a third eye on them."

Alan sighed. "It's nothing special, Gordon," he said, giving in. "They're all just worried and scared. Virgil's angry, but then he gets scared by his own anger. John's trying to stay calm by distracting himself and Scott's completely tied up in knots. And Dad," Alan grimaced. "Dad's feeling the pressure. He's getting a lot angrier."

Gordon thought for the first time that the Tracy household may not be the most comfortable place for an empath at the moment.

Before he could put the thought into words however, something green and shiny sailed past his vision and bounced of the chopping block.

Whirling instinctively, the axe dragged in orbit, Gordon spun towards the fence, and the axe caught the second beer bottle as it sailed over, shattering it. The woodshed was on the side of the house but the Tracy house sat on corner, so the particular side where all the stuff lay was just a fence line away from the street.

"Wha…" more stones and trash was flung over the fence, along with a full consignment of insults and labels.

"It's those flyer hangers!" Alan was backing away, wood falling to the ground. "There's a whole bunch of them on the street."

"Hey! Knock it off!" Gordon yelled furiously, and was met by a wave of jeers.

"Maybe we should call the police…" Alan trailed off at the look on Gordon's face.

"The police? For us? Fifty-fifty they even bother to show Sprout," Gordon steamed. "I am gonna…"

"Gordon! Alan!" Virgil's head was poking out of the kitchen window. "Don't even think about it Gordon," he ordered, looking at the expression on the red heads face. "Come on, Dad says get inside. He's about to leave."

"Leave?" Alan repeated, suddenly feeling a knot of tension. "Where…?"

"I don't know," Virgil shrugged through the window pane. "He's just getting ready to go, and he wants you inside. Come on!"

Gordon and Alan dumped the tools and skirted around to the front of the house, where they met Jeff coming out the other way. The Porsche sat in the driveway, where Randall had had it delivered this morning, along with the SUV.

Jeff already had his keys out. "There you are! Both of you stay inside. There's a whole mess of them outside on the street, and apparently the drink has been flowing." There were yells and jeers coming from the gate as well, and more random projectiles. "I have to go out – Brains just called me, and he thinks he might be in trouble." Jeff had had enough time last night to mention Brains had stopped by, but had only told Scott the reason why, other than the new job. "I'm going to see if I can sort him out."

"Can't we all go?" Alan asked. Quite apart from not wanting his family to be separated right now, it would be great to see Fermat again.

"No, Alan," Jeff shook his head. The other Tracys watched from the doorway. "You all should stay here. We've got security systems and a wall, that should keep them out. No point in us all going out there into trouble. Relax," he added, seeing his son's expressions. "I'll be fine." _And I'm going into Bale Palton's lair, and I don't want any of you near him_, Jeff added in his head.

"Dad…" John began softly, and Jeff knew his son was picking things up from him.

"I'll be fine," he repeated, and swung Gordon and Alan around to join their brothers, standing on the stoop. "You just stay inside, all of you. If there's any trouble call me, or Rod, or Randall, or Penny. They'll all help you. I'll be back as quickly as I can."

Jeff headed towards the car, feeling his sons eyes on his back.

"Be careful out there, Dad," Scott called after him.

"I will. You remember that too." Jeff turned to face his boys again once he got the door open. "I'll be okay," he called back reassuringly. "Keep an eye on one another. I'll be back soon, I promise."

And then he was driving out the gate, watching his sons watch him from the stoop, gathered together in a huddle. Driving out slowly past the angry mob who threw things at his car, Jeff made it to the street, and watched the gates close on his sons, cutting them off from his sight.

He didn't like it already.

At the doorway, the boys were no happier. Scott, silently placed in command, gently hustled them all back inside. "Come on, inside. Help me lock up the house."

One by one, they all peeled away from the door, leaving only Alan lingering at it, watching the shut gate.

Some nameless dread had risen in the youngest Tracy. Contrary to popular belief, not all Alan's visions came in one huge, disorientating, all-encompassing flash. Most of them soaked insidiously into his mind, nothing more than odd thoughts and feelings and impressions, with no point of reference or visual key that he could use to guess the timing of it.

And now some of those impressions were reaching him now, a ghost of a memory that came from in front, not behind. _His Dad wasn't there, and he was alone. His Dad was going to a place that felt like a prison, but masqueraded as a normal place. There was a roar of machines, great anger and fury and greed, and things falling in the sky…_

"Alan," Scott gently reached out to shake the youngest Tracy's shoulder. "Come on."

Alan turned to face him, and the dread he felt must had shown up on his face, because Scott gripped his shoulder tight. "It'll be okay." was offered.

Alan wasn't sure, but he felt it would be a lot different than that.

-------------------------------------------

The Palton Compound rose before Jeff like a fortress, which wasn't far off the mark. Palton owned a hectare block in the middle of the city, and had turned it into a small, inner city for his employees and his business concerns. Past the smaller buildings, apartments, shipping offices and conference halls, Palton Tower rose in a spire, thirty four storeys into the sky, ringed around the top with a flat halo, which served as a landing pad.

It was a place the reflected its builder – large, ostentatious and wealthy. Jeff had always found the compound to be a bit over the top – he knew for a fact Palton barely used half the buildings here, but Palton seemed to think every extra square inch increased his status. Jeff, a pragmatic and frugal man at his core, was always left a bit mystified by it.

Jeff pulled onto one of the inner roads of the compound to park in front of the 'Tech' complex, where Brains apartment was housed. He hung up his cell phone from where he'd been informing Randall of his whereabouts, and went into the Spartan housing. He searched until he managed to find the apartment number.

Brains had called him, frantic, an hour ago saying that he couldn't find his son anywhere and feared he might have gone into the technician lab where Brains worked, which he had access to. Brains, his project work over, had taken the opportunity to search for the property that Jeff had promised him, wanting to get away from the threat of Palton as soon as possible. Brains had tried to get into the lab, but had found himself locked out of it, and had been given a message to see Mr Palton about the renewal of his contract – a suggestive and insidious little statement on which no actual accusation could be legally made. Palton was toeing the line, barely.

The door was ajar. Jeff cautiously entered, and found a mess of paper and detritus of shoes and discarded clothes. He heard the sound of frantic movement down the hall into the living area.

Approaching with care, Jeff went down the hall without announcing himself, silently approaching the noise at the end. He tensely peered into the dishevelled open space, and relaxed when he found Brains alone, hands whirring as he assembled and reassembled bits and pieces anxiously on the table, surrounded by a mess of paper notes. On top of a pile a laptop perched precariously, data and code scrolling across it. The living space was in chaos, but judging by the neat cleanliness of the kitchenette, it wasn't a usual state.

"Brains," Jeff called gently, and the scientist jumped and nearly went over backwards.

"M-M-M-Mr T-T-T-racy," his stutter was so much worse for the tension, rendering him almost incoherent. "T-T-T-They h-h-h-have him! They-they-they have h-h-him! I am cce-ce-ce…sure! The sys-sys…the network is b-b-b-eing changed e-e-e-every fo-fo-fo-…every few seconds and the d-d-d-d-download quota h-h-h…is sk-sk-sk-sky-skyrocketing! They _h-h-h-have m-m-m-my s-s-s-s…my s-s-s-…my boy!_"

Brains' fist slammed onto the kitchen table, causing the table to rock and the tower of pages and the laptop to begin to topple. Jeff, quick on his feet, moved to grab the machine before it fell.

"It's alright Brains," Jeff tried to calm the man down, though admittedly Brans' panic was one he understood very well. "We'll get him back. If Palton is resorting to blackmail he doesn't have any legal standing. He always did act too arrogantly and too impulsively. What is that?"

He was talking about the thing that Brains was assembling in his hands, not even stopping while they talked. It looked like a paint scraper that had wiring fitted into its handles and attached to its blade, and when Jeff looked closer he saw the ridges of a connecting port on the flat edge.

"Th-th-this will, uh, get us i-i-i-i…we will gain ac-access to the l-l-l-ab with this," Brains held it up. "I-I-It will co-co-convert my e-e-electric current into an o-o-o-override com-com-com …order for the, uh, system locks."

Jeff stared at him. "You only called an hou…" he remembered who he was talking to, and changed tacks. "Sounds good. Let's get to him now – Palton probably won't be expecting such a fast action."

"I sh-sh-should have…I sh-should have tak-tak-taken him w-w-w-with me," Brains said bitterly. "I w-w-w-wanted to surprise him. I th-th-th-thought…I th-th-thought…" the scientist trailed off, slumped.

Jeff felt a deep stab of compassion for the man. He put a hand on Brains' shoulder. "You couldn't have known Palton would do something so cold, Brains. We'll get him back. Let's go." He gestured the despondent scientist to precede him. Brains bent to pick up his attaché case and his laptop, packing as he walked out.

The drove to the main building, and used the overrider to get in through the locked access door in the parking lot, which was unguarded.

Brains lead the way unerringly through a maze of sterile corridors, heading downwards into the basement labs which were just above the factory floor. There were no guards around, just door upon door, locked in to the buildings security systems, which all fell under the overrider, which zapped in the master code and turned off each lock as they passed. Jeff kept an eye on the cameras, knowing there were more he couldn't see and that Palton probably knew they were here by now.

It didn't matter. The overrider, cobbled together in under an hour by Brains, cut straight through the security measures like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Even if Palton was changing the codes as they travelled, it did no good against it. Brains had always had this way of making his ability work for him in his everyday life, something which Jeff had always struggled with, which he admired in the man. It was remarkably short-sighted of Palton to assume that Brains would lie down and take it – Brains always had a quiet way of getting where he wanted to go no matter what others wanted for him.

Finally, they reached the thick steel doors that were the entrance into the buildings think tank. Palton always guarded his secrets jealously, although at this point Jeff was thinking he might have been wiser to invest in a few more human guards around the place.

But then, Palton rarely considered people, did he?

"R-r-r-red," Brains commented, looking at the glowing lights over the door. "T-t-t-that means it's an, uh, a-a-al-al-…a security event, Mr T-Tracy. They, uh, know w-w-we are here."

Jeff shrugged. "Couldn't be helped." In truth, he felt tense and cornered, trapped in enemy territory. He promised his sons he'd come back, and he intended to do so. But the way didn't seem as clear as it once had. He hadn't expected Fermat to be incarcerated – threatened, yes, alluded to in order to assure Brains' cooperation, yes, but not taken hostage in such a bold action.

Brains was breathing hard, and Jeff kept a close watched on him. Overuse of his power could cause heart problems, among other things.

Brains shoved the overrider into the card port of the door lock, and zapped it. There was a click and a whir, and an alarm started up as the unauthorised shutdown was registered.

Jeff sighed, and gently pushed the doors. Might as well make it a good show, whatever else happened. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced as he strode in. "We're here to collect Fermat Hackenbacker. We won't be long."

He walked straight into the lab, and appeared not to notice the people shooting to their feet around him. One man rose with the look of authority about him. He opened is mouth, but Jeff beat him to it.

"Sorry to be a disturbance, but we are in a hurry. We'll try to be as quiet as possible. Are you the supervisor? Would you mind directing us?"

It was the tone that wrong footed them. It was a trick Jeff Tracy had learned in his path to the head of a multinational corporation. If you sounded as if you knew exactly what you were doing and that you had full rights to do it, people around you tended to hesitate to stop you.

The man hesitated long enough for Jeff to get past him and Brains to spot his son in the middle cubicle.

"_F-F-Fermat!_"

They rushed over, and Jeff checked him over, feeling his disbelief and anger rise. The boy was slumped, his eyes blank. Fermat was clearly not at home.

"What's wrong with him, Brains?" Jeff asked, gently helping the scientist get the boy upright in the chair. Fermat's slack face was a disturbing sight.

"I-I-It's okay, Mr Tracy," Brains assured, sounding professional. "I c-c-c-…I'm able to, uh, bring him out of t-t-th-this."

He went over to his desk, and grabbed a jar of sweets off it, twisting the lid off as he hurried back.

"Candy?" Jeff asked blankly. The other people in the sterile white lab just stared.

"H-H-Hilton Humbugs, Mr Tracy," Brains clarified calmly. "The most, uh, p-p-p-powerful p-p-p-p-peppermints known to man." Extracted one of the black and white striped things and putting the rest down, he bent over his sons propped up, empty body, and gently supported his chin with his free hand. "In or-or-order to, uh, stop the gen-generation of elec-elec-elec-electrical pulses, you must st-st-st…you must wake up the, uh, p-p-p-par…the areas of the mind that are being, uh, neglected. N-n-no machine has, uh, a sense of, uh, taste." Brains' tone had taken on a lecturing quality as he slipped the confectionary between his son lips and under his tongue. "B-b-b…trust me. You'd h-h-h-have to be d-d-d-d…post mortem to, uh, not n-n-notice one of these things in your m-m-m-mouth."

Fermat suddenly jerked, and moved, and Brains' arms went around him to still him in the chair. There was a soft, choking sound coming from the child, and Brains clapped a hand over Fermat's mouth. "Shhhhshhhshhh," he hushed his son, right next to his ear. "J-j-just let it dis-diso-diso…just let it stay, s-s-son. Just l-l-let it stay."

The boy made a weak groaning sound, his arms twitching up and down a few times before rising slowly up toward his face, s if he had to relearn the movement. After a few seconds his head twitched as well, lolling to one side, and started sucking on the sweet voluntarily. He began to blink again, tears starting to form as his eyes were re-moistened. Jeff looked the boy and there was a tired, semi-awareness there now, which hadn't been there before. He wasn't all the way back, but he'd made a start.

"It'll pro-pro-pro…most likely take a f-f-few, uh, hours to r-r-reach full con-con-con…awareness," Brains said, nearly reading Jeff's mind.

Fermat's eyes had sleepily slid shut, but his jaw still moved slightly.

Peppermints, huh? Well, Jeff mused, every family with a psychic had their own idiosyncrasies. He hadn't spoken a word aloud to John for a month and half, in order to sophisticate his control of his telepathy. He'd sat in a room for hours on end with Virgil and a couple of pieces of pipe, teaching him to close off the ends. His own father had lined up Grandma Tracy's spoon collection in front of him in the evenings, getting him to make and un-make shapes from the metal.

"You are trespassing…" the supervisor began angrily, the trance broken. Brains glared at him as he gathered up his son.

"Y-Y-You were k-k-k-kidnapping," he retorted.

"And you were assaulting a minor," Jeff added, angry. "You could have caused a coma, or a stroke, or brain death or any one of a dozen fatal outcomes. Why?"

There was a silence.

"Come on people," Jeff continued sternly. "We have two eyewitnesses, three once young Fermat comes around, to testify to what you did. Psychic or not, the law doesn't like people who risk the lives of children. Now you tell me why, or I will have the law onto every person in this room, involved or not!"

There was a tense silence. The supervisors face was pale, and it seemed he had only one option for escape – pass the buck.

"We were just doing what we were ordered to do," he protested.

"By whom?"

"Mr Palton," the man blurted quickly, backing away from the expression on Jeff's face. "It was Mr Palton's orders."

"That absolves you of nothing," Jeff spat, no less enraged.

He didn't get a chance to release his wrath on the people in the lab though. Security poured into the room.

----------------------------------------------------

"Ah, Jeff," Bale Palton greeted as they were steered into his office on the top floor by serious men carrying guns. Fermat lay still in his father's arms, unaware of what was going on. "It has been a while."

Jeff sighed, and ignored the hand that was stretched out for him to shake. The PRA and the hate mongers were threats enough, something to be treated with care; but Palton was one man - a greedy worm of a man, who was nowhere near the level on intelligence of the men he faced, despite his native cunning.

His hair was thinning and silvering now, and he was developing a potbelly in his middle age. Otherwise the man was well preserved, sharp and personable.

"I do hope you have a good reason for breaking into my compound Jeff," he continued, unfazed and pleasant as he made his way back around his desk. "I'd hate to have to press charges. But maybe you, the good doctor and I," he gave a bright smile. "Can come to an arrangement. There's really no need to bring the courts into this, I think – not when we can have such a future together. I would take no satisfaction in the idea that your boys – how are they, by the way? – ending up in PRA's social services, along with young Fermat…what happened to him?" He smiled again in the face of Brains' glare and Jeff's carefully immobile expression. "I had to call them, of course. I feared rogue psychics had broken into my compound – I wasn't aware it was you! Had I known, I never would have. Not to worry, I can send them away when they come." Palton's eyes sent the rest of the message clear – _if we can come to an arrangement_.

Brains appeared so enraged that he couldn't even get the words out. He clutched his son protectively.

Jeff's expression hadn't changed, and still didn't as the lab supervisors voice filled the room.

'…_could have caused a coma, or a stroke, or brain death or any one of a dozen fatal outcomes. Why?... Come on people. We have two eyewitnesses, three once young Fermat comes around, to testify to what you did. Psychic or not, the law doesn't like people who risk the lives of children. Now you tell me why, or I will have the law onto every person in this room, involved or not!'_

'_We were just doing what we were ordered to do.' _

'_By whom'_

'_Mr Palton. It was Mr Palton's orders.'_

…._'Mr Palton. It was Mr Palton's orders.'_

………… _It was Mr Palton's orders.'_

……………… _Mr Palton's orders.'_

Bale Palton's expression of amused superiority dried up like spit on hot concrete.

Jeff raised an eyebrow at him. "The PRA won't let you keep them if you hurt them, Bale," he pointed out, withdrawing the tiny recording transmitter from his breast pocket. "Do let them come in, I'm sure they will be interested."

"Don't be a fool, Jeff," Palton growled. "They want you. I am their ally, I find places for their hopeless cases every day of the week. They want whatever he cooked up," Palton jerked his head at the silent scientist, who had let Jeff take the lead. "I can make them go away, if you're willing to cooperate."

Jeff wasn't even tempted. "Don't you ever get tired of dancing on the end of that particular string, Bale? They'll take us whatever you want or say. Your interests don't concern them in the slightest."

Palton's office was a ring of glass, outside the landing halo opening out to a view of the city under the afternoon sun. Now coming closer, down though the buildings, a pair of helicopters had appeared, circling. Jeff didn't need to see any markings to know they belonged to the PRA.

Brains was looking from Palton to Jeff, clutching his son tight. Jeff and Palton stared at each other, but after raising five sons, Jeff was much better at this kind of battle of wills. He shrugged, almost insolently. "I'll take my chances with the PRA, Bale; I've dealt with them before. You should probably know that the recording has been transmitted to my people at Tracy Corp, and it will go straight to my lawyer from there, so if you get any brilliant ideas about making a deal with the PRA for the talents of my sons, you will be buried so deep in legal paper you'll need sink a shaft in your office to get to your desk. The same goes for Fermat. Stupid, Bale," Jeff shook his head. "Impulsive and cold and stupid. I can't tell which is worse, the fact that you were stupid enough to do it, or the arrogance with which you assumed it would work."

Palton had risen from his desk, his face livid with rage. "Don't think you will stop me with a few legal tricks and little gadgets Tracy! I will find another way, and mark my words, you will rue the day you chose not to cooperate with me! You and your sons!"

Palton gestured to the guards. "Take these intruders out to the strip. I have charges to press with the PRA!"

Jeff's eyes flickered to Brains as the guards hustled them out. In Jeff's pocket, his pager was buzzing on silent mode, but Brains might pick up the current. The slight frown on Brains' face showed he had, and was puzzled. Jeff took to the opportunity to wink at him.

Brains raised an eyebrow as they were hustled out the glass doors, and the roar of the helicopters got closer.

"I really am sorry about this Jeff," Palton was saying as the helicopters pulled up close enough for the people and guards standing on the halo to feel the draft they kicked up. "It didn't have to go this way. We could have built such a future together."

Jeff snorted. "I am not interested in your view of the future, Palton. You are a corrupt mogul and a cruel operator. I do not respect men who cannot look at life with wonder and humility and respect. The world is not a thing for you to take, people are not tools for you to use. If you truly believe money and power will keep you from ever getting burned, you are in for a hard lesson. But," Jeff shrugged. "It is no concern of mine what such a little person such as yourself does."

He felt Palton's incensed scowl. He knew his lack of fear and defeat in the face of Palton's trap was enraging the man. That was good. Enraged men make mistakes.

"Brains," Jeff said, turning his back on Palton in a calculated insult. "Let me take Fermat. I can hand him up to you on the chopper so you can keep him in your lap."

Brains was watching Jeff carefully. "Yes, M-M-Mr Tracy. G-G-G-G…excellent idea."

Fermat was gently transferred from one man to the other. Jeff checked – he was still out of it.

The choppers were pulling up to land. But Jeff had had time, as he took Fermat, to get his pager in his hand, and hit the 'send' button on it. His senses were telling him that there was more metal in the sky than there should be. Perfect.

"Palton," Jeff said pleasantly, shifting his grip securely on Fermat as he transferred him to a firemans carry. "Contact my sons, get in my way or interfere in the lives of my family or associates again, and moral right or not, I will make you regret it. Good day."

And Palton was flung back by his metal tie pins, cufflinks, money clips, rings, so hard into the glass wall it cracked under the impact. The guards swung their guns in Jeff's direction, but Brains was suddenly there, hands free, gripping each man by the shoulder. They jerked and shivered as the mild shock ran through them and earthed through their shoes, falling back, unconscious but unhurt.

Jeff gently lay Fermat down on the tarmac as his father got his breath back. The two helicopters were upon them, but in a city a metallurgiopath had the advantage. Jeff closed his eyes and opened his hands.

The chopper pilots were suddenly handling machines that were being pulled left and right, dragged though the very air, pulled toward the metal of the surrounding buildings, repelled from Palton Tower. As they went nearly sideways in the air, the physics of thrust and gravity began to work against them. They desperately tried to correct as the agents carried in the back were thrown about, screaming.

They were falling in the sky.

As they pulled desperately out of the tailspins they'd been spun into, they noticed a new machine, rising from the shadow of the building where it had been stealthily hovering in a blind spot, climbing to the halo, safe and steady.

Randall saluted the pilots on their way down, as they swung away, dodging buildings as they moved to land in the crowded streets.

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The atmosphere was tense and gloomy in the Tracy household. Virgil played odd scores and tunes on the piano in the lounge will the others loafed, unsuccessfully trying to relax, poking at books and homework. Scott, trying to escape the atmosphere, was in the kitchen preparing something to eat for dinner. Perhaps not the most tactful move, since it only highlighted the fact the Dad wouldn't be home for it, but it was better than reaching a point where he was ready to strangle Virgil with a piano wire, or hang the brats up by their thumbs, or beat John over the head with his textbooks. It was not a happy household at all, and Jeff Tracy had only been gone a couple of hours.

Evening was slowly emerging from the afternoon.

Everyone was annoyed with the piano, but no one dared ask Virgil to stop. If he did, then there would be nothing but the thick, uncomfortable silence, full of things everyone knew but wasn't going to say.

"Gordon," John said eventually, teeth gritted. "Will you please stop that?"

"What?"

"That tapping," John gestured irritably at the foot tapping on the wooden leg of the couch where Gordon sprawled across it. "And get your feet off the furniture."

"Who died and made you boss?" Gordon snapped back, swinging his feet around.

John opened his mouth, but Alan, curled up on the rug writing in a workbook piped up "I don't care. I do care you've been doing it for the past twenty minutes straight, and its annoying. Knock it off."

"Like you're one to talk, you've been scratching away for the last half an hour," Gordon muttered resentfully. "And as if anyone could hear anything over Virgil anyway."

"Don't you start with…" Virgil's hands slammed the lid shut on the old piano just as Scott called from the kitchen.

"Guys! Can we _please_ not start an argument? Please? We've got more than enough to deal with, don't we?"

"We weren't arguing," John protested, closing his book with a snap.

"No," came Scott exasperated reply. "You were having a calm and rational debate two words away from a fist fight. Come on, by now we should all know the signs. Just everyone shut up and try not to drive each other loony on purpose, all right? We really don't need it."

A resentful truce was called.

Scott shook his head, and went back to the cutting board. No aristocratic snubbing, no middle class vendetta, no hillbilly feud could even compete with the Tracy boys in the mood.

Suddenly, in the living room, Alan went from lying to upright so fast you could nearly hear his tendons twang.. "_Scott!_"

Scott dropped the knife and whirled, taking two strides to the kitchen door and managing to get out a "What?" before the flaming bottle burst through the kitchen window and shattered on the counter where Scott had been standing, spitting hot, flaming diesel all over the place.

Catching a few droplets across the side of his face, Scott let out a curse and staggered back, reaching the doorway just as his brothers came the other way. More flaming bottles came through, and the stink of burning petrol and plastic choked the room.

Cursing colourfully, Virgil blocked the windows and Gordon controlled the fire while John wiped Scott's face with a damp tea towel. Red, blistered speckles were dotted across his right cheek and neck.

"I'm…I'm sorry Scott," Alan faltered from where he hovered nearby, pallid. "I…I felt them all coming but I thought they were just coming to hang more flyers."

"'S'ok Sprout," Scott replied gently as the cool of the towel stole some of the heat from his scotched skin. "You couldn't have known. Virgil, Gordon! Just leave it. Come on, everyone back further into the house, now! They'll run out of bottles soon enough."

John, having seen to his brother, now went to the phone. He frowned as he tried the land line, and then tried his mobile. "Uh, Scott? The phones are all out." He snagged Virgil's from his hand as he drew it out, and tried again. Still pensive, he punched in a few codes and commands. He put it to his ear, and winced as he quickly pulled it away. Even at a distance Scott could here a high pitched audio squeal, like back feed from a stereo. "It's not a network failure. We're being jammed!"

The Tracy's all looked at one another.

"How many more out there, Sprout?" Virgil asked carefully.

"Too many," Alan whispered.

There was a roar and a boom as the gates were battered in by a car. The security alarm shrilled. And at the walls, shapes were clambering over, invading their home.

"Run!"

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End Part V


	6. Scattered

Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds, characters, machines, plots and the rest, are owned by Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and their affiliates. No money is made in this totally of-the-wall fic.

Warnings: There is some mild violence, intense situations, adult themes mild bad language and what might be considered the supernatural, so maybe not for the kiddies.

Authors Notes: Whoo, it took a while to get this one out. Not through lack of enthusiasm, just that it was a complicated sequence. Forgive any spelling mistakes etc; try as I might to find them all, I seem to keep missing them.

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Part VI – Scattered

_In which there is - Back to Tracy Corp – Lady Penelope's Plans - Security Breach – Systems Up – Packing – Hold the Line – Splitting Up – Arguments – the Bet – the Hidden Road – A Memento from the Tracys – John's Talents – Getting Away – Across the Bridge – Uncrossable Current – Alan's Promise – Stockholm Syndrome – Scattered – Helpless Fury – Staying Ahead – Final Report – A Demotion – Captured_

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Dragging a few tonnes of metal through the air, even slightly, took an enormous effort of will. Jeff was definitely feeling his age.

"We'll land at Tracy Corp in two minutes, sir," Randall reported from the next seat. Jeff had clambered in the pilot's chamber of the small craft at Palton's tower, and Brains sat in the back his son strapped in his arms.

"Sounds good Randall," Jeff replied in relief. His bones and joints ached, and his head pounded. He was really getting an idea of his true age – a sobering idea indeed.

"What are you going to do now, sir?" Randall asked. He didn't look at Jeff and kept his eyes forward, but the question was a loaded one.

An extremely good question, as a matter of fact. Jeff had just broken into a private facility and attacked the PRA directly; not a wise move, all things considered – but then, all things considered, his choices had been limited. Had they waited for police help it might have taken hours or days to get Fermat back, if they could get the police interested at all. They would likely fob it off to the PRA in any case, and the PRA would them hold all the cards. The PRA didn't play fair and they had legal ways to keep Fermat away from his father for medical reasons when they released him from Palton's custody, just like Palton would claim he had innocently asked for Fermat's help and Fermat had lost control all on his own.

And the PRA wanted something from them. If they had been taken into custody, they would not get out without selling their souls – the PRA had full rights to hold them without charges as potentially dangerous to society.

So here they were running back to Tracy Corp, the PRA soon to be on their backs.

Jeff was stuck – he could not let the device or its inventor fall under PRA control, which meant he couldn't stay out of the crisis in Washington. He was going to have to pit what he knew to be right against a government who was in no mood to listen.

First things first. He had to get the scientist and his son out of the country. He wouldn't leave them in PRA hands while the matter was decided.

He put a call through to the communications tower of his building, and asked to have a phone call patched through.

"Creighton-Ward Estate, 'ow may I help you?" a familiar cockney voice picked up the line.

"Parker, it's Jeff Tracy," Jeff replied. "I need to speak to Penny. It's urgent."

"Yes, Master Tracy," the butler replied promptly. "I shall put you through directly, sir."

There was a click on the line and a short silence, before Lady Penelope's voice came through the line. "It's a good thing this is not a visual call Jeff, and I am quite indecent for company." There was a watery sound lapping in the background. Suddenly her tone was business like. "What's going on?"

Jeff told her, and there followed a silence that would probably be filled with swearing if the Lady had not been so ladylike.

"This calls for some rather abrupt action, I imagine," she said at last, perfectly calm. "I shall go immediately to the International Science Institute in Greenwich. Brains is a respected Fellow there, and they are red hot on ensuring the right to practice and find knowledge without governmental control. They will get the whole academic community behind a bid for his asylum. It will only be a start, Jeff – the actual process will take weeks, and it may take several days to allow him to enter the country to argue for it."

Jeff blinked. He was certain only about thirty seconds had passed, and suddenly the plans were in place and in motion. Say what you will about the sloth of aristocratic society, none of it had been passed to Penelope Creighton-Ward.

Besides, her quick action had awakened his tired mind a little, his planner's brain suddenly full ideas. "I'm going to release a press statement. I'm going to tell the world about the device – the PRA wants to keep this in the shadows, it'll become more complicated for them in the public eye. Call me back in a few hours, and I'll have a fuller strategy to follow."

"Right Jeff. Take care," Lady Penelope advised grimly.

Jeff signed off, and turned to his worried passenger in the back. "Brains, how's Fermat?"

"F-f-f-fine. As-as-as…he's sleeping. Which, uh, c-c-c-…state are w-w-we g-g-g-going to, Mr Tracy?"

Jeff raised an eyebrow at him.

"A lo-lo-logical con-con-….assumption, Mr Tracy."

"London, it looks like," Jeff again shook his head at the speed which Brains thoughts could move. "An old friend of mine with influence is going to get the wheels turning in England – but they have to allow you in before you can argue your case before the Parliament for your asylum. You might have to lay low for a time."

"I p-p-p-p…leave myself i-i-i-in your, uh, hands, M-M-Mr Tracy," Brains stated firmly. "I h-h-h-heard about the, uh press release. I find it to be, uh, the b-b-best st-st-st…the best plan. T-T-Tell the w-w-world, we can, uh, t-t-take it from there."

"Okay," Jeff nodded. Outside, there was a slight bump as Randall landed expertly on the roof of Tracy Corp. "Come on, I'll arrange a safe house for you and Fermat until the paperwork is sorted for you to get out. Not the way I'd like to go, but," Jeff shrugged hopelessly. "The PRA shouldn't get their claws into you."

"N-n-not when you, uh, g-g-got them first, Mr Tracy?"

Jeff stared at the man's perfectly serious expression, and watched it dissolve into a slight grin.

"Oh cute," Jeff replied, shaking his head at Brains' unique sense of humour, rarely witnessed by those he didn't trust. "Very cute."

Randall was disembarking, and had moved to open the back doors to help the scientist clamber down with his son still in his arms. Jeff got out too, ducking under the whirring rotors, heading for the roof entrance. Night had fallen and the last paleness of twilight was nearly gone on the western horizon. Jeff was therefore quite startled to find his secretary standing there to meet him, as well as most of his security teams. They had been gathered in by Randall when Jeff had called, certain that his commanding officer would need the support of his personnel.

"Mr Tracy!" Mrs Collen cried above the roar of the still running chopper. "It's just awful, Mr Tracy!"

Jeff, unable to talk properly with all the noise, directed the group down onto the stairwell leading into the building. He noted the tension thick in the air. "Nice of all of you to make it," he called to his loyal staff. There were more people still in the building – he recognised several engineers and various other representatives from several departments.

"Oh, Mr Tracy!" Mrs Collen cried again.

"Sir, we've got bad news," Takazo, one of the security heads under Randall spoke up grimly.

"Report," Randall ordered.

"Twenty two minutes ago our stations picked up a security breach."

"In Tracy Corp?" Randall demanded.

"No, sir," Takazo very carefully looked only at his immediate superior. "At Mr Tracy's home, sir."

"_What_?"

Takazo closed his eyes, took a breath, and continued. "We dispatched several teams and called the police. It doesn't look good sir." Takazo couldn't bring himself to look at Jeff's dead white face. "It doesn't look good."

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The doors leading to and from the living room slammed shut, fast enough to blur. Scott shoved his brothers into the centre and darted to the side wall, to the keyboard panel there. He punched in a code with rapid moving fingers, the little beeps punctuated by the sound of shattering glass and angry screaming. The Tracy boys all looked at the mess of people moving pack-like across the lawn, armed with bottles, knives and guns. Then the shields came down over the windows, blocking light and vision. The banging at the doors suddenly became pained yells as the invaders suddenly realised that the doors had been electrified.

Overhead, the lights in the house suddenly blinked out, and the boys were plunged into darkness. A flame flared to life in Gordon's hands, lighting up their tense faces in an umber glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls.  
"They've cut the power," Virgil postulated.

"Dad's security guys will have registered this," John added.

The boys all exchanged looks. In all of them was read the same thing – we can't wait for them to come. This isn't some civilian riot; this is a professional attack.

"Go upstairs, get your backpacks," Scott ordered. "I'll follow in a minute – go now!"

John shoved Gordon and Alan ahead of him, through the door, out into the entrance hall and up the stairs. Virgil stayed, daring Scott with his eyes to make an issue of it.

Scott wasn't even going to try. He flew back into the kitchen, ripping open cupboards, grabbing boxes of dry food. Virgil, following his lead, raided the fridge with both hands. The room stank of smoke and toxic melted plastic. Their shoes crunched over the glass shards scattered on the floor.

John and the others returned, carrying bags, their running feet nearly drowned out by the pounding hands on the armoured shields over the windows. The light was gone from the house – the Tracys were moving by feel and memory. John was holding a torch when he came back in.

"Open," Scott said curtly as Alan put his on the kitchen island. He began stuffing what he had into it, not even bothering to empty it. Gordon was already helping Virgil with his own load, and John was swinging the torch back and forth between them and the sounds coming from outside their lockdown.

The pounding was no longer an erratic pattering, it was now a rhythmic percussion, focused on the doors - big, heavy sounding thumps, ending in ominous rattles.

Scott fumbled in a drawer for the household kitty, a metal box Jeff had machined from scratch in his callow youth, used now to hold the family petty cash. He emptied it, and stuffed the notes and coins haphazardly in with the food.

The door was definitely rattling loose. All of them looked at each other, faces pale. There was just no nice way to do this.

Scott's jaw tightened. "Virgil, block the back door."

"Scott!" John's voice was sharp with protest.

"If ever there was a time not to argue, now is it John!" Scott snapped back sharply.

"But Scott…" Alan's voice was softer and shakier.

"We'll just guard the doors while you all get to the basement. We'll follow. Go now!"

"Not bloody likely!" Gordon replied vehemently. "Dad said stay together!"

"He also said most of us safe is better than none of us!" Scott roared so loud that they all backed up a step. "We don't have time to argue! Get moving!" There was a moment of stunned silence. Scott moderated his tone. "It'll be okay. Just get moving. We'll meet up later. Go!"

Virgil had just turned to run for the back entrance, when there was the sound of bursting wood from the front. Scott bolted back though the den towards the noise – there! Dark shapes were trying to file in, hampered by the bottleneck caused by the narrow doorway. The shapes, trying to orientate themselves in the sudden dark, were unprepared to be flung back, most of them striking the door jams with flailing limbs as they were flew out.

Virgil was at the back door, the main entrance on the other side of the house, which was slowing splintering under whatever sort of battering ram was being used. The door was suddenly shuddering rather than rattling, the pounding muffled, a rippling across the surface of the door indicated Virgil had done as ordered. His teeth were bared and his forehead lined as he braced against the heavy pounding on the outside.

"Go…on," he managed between blows. "I'll…hold them….here. You get the….tunnel door…open!"

"Virgil…" John's face was an agony of fear and helplessness.

"Go on!" Virgil hissed. "Catch…you in…New York." His gritted mouth managed a slight upturning, a grimace turned smile. "Save me…a hot dog."

"No," Alan whispered, denying, and he was dragged away by his scruff by John. He had one last view of Virgil's tense back, knees bent, head bowed, as he kept the groaning, shrieking door from falling in.

There were cries as they sped back through the den, as more people learned that coming in the front way lead a brief but shocking flying lesson. Scott was panting in the dim light cast in by the broken door, hunkered in a sheltered spot by the curved end of the stairs.

"Move it!" he ordered, flinging the battered door up against the doorway, a temporary barrier. "Get to Dad, or get to New York! Go!"

"What about you?" Gordon demanded pausing at the side arch next to the stairs. His eyes were wide and brilliant in the dark.

"You think they can stop me?" Scott answer was cocky, and he gave Gordon a wink.

Startled, but oddly reassured, Gordon let out a disbelieving huff. "You're nuts!"

"He is," John agreed, putting a hand on Gordon's shoulder. His eyes met Scott's over the two youngest Tracy's heads, full of words he had no time to say. Alan felt them in the air, and screwed his eyes shut at the weight of them.

"Go on," Scott breathed. "Look out for one another. Go!"

The temporary barrier was blasted in, and more people tried to join the raid. John, Gordon and Alan ran one way, Scott's yell of rage on their backs, screaming people following.

Gordon struggled against John's grip as he dragged them through a corridor and down to laundry room and garage. Near the garage door, there was a second, critical door, seemingly nothing more than a broom closet, but something much more than that.

"Let me go!" Gordon howled in outrage. "Let me go, John, I can help them!"

"I need you to help me!" John retorted, almost slamming him against the wall as he hauled Gordon level with himself. "Acting like an adult means doing the sensible, practical thing, Gordon, no matter unfeeling it seems!"

"That keeps you warm at night?" Gordon growled without thinking, and watched a spasm twitch at John's lips.

"Stop fighting!" Alan cut in abruptly. "Please! There are more of them now, and they're getting i…" He was cut off by the sounded of metal crunching, and falling to the floor. "They've bent the security panels in the garage!"

There as the sound of scratching, scraping and grunting as a line of people started clambering in under the automatic door. There was a crashing sound in the laundry. Behind them, the pounding had ceased.

John cursed. He had taken both packs when they had started their first, frantic, dash from the kitchen. Now he unslung them, and shoved each of them into his younger brother's hands along with the torch. "Get to the basement, and get out."

"John, don't," Alan begged, sensing John's plan in the sudden, determined glint in his eye.

"I'll be okay," John said reassuringly. "I know how to fool them. Just get out of here. We _will _follow. Somehow." A sudden, tiny smile crossed John Tracy's face. "We Tracys are an inventive lot."

"John, this is stupid," Gordon said angrily.

"Yeah. It is. And there's nothing we can do," John replied, bitterly frustrated.

There was a loud clatter and cursing coming from the garage as something was knocked over. There were arguing voices rising around them. A sudden, puzzled look crossed Alan's face briefly.  
John gave his younger siblings a shove towards the nondescript doorway. "Get going, or I'll have you grounded until you're fourty."

"John..." Gordon looked ready protest, but John' eyes flickered to Alan, and Gordon bit them back. "I'm sorry. About before."

"You'd better be. When we get to New York, I'm going to kick your ass. Stop stalling," John waved them on, backing down the corridor. He shot them a smile. "Bet you I'll beat you there."

"Twenty bucks," Gordon replied. "You're on."

"Be careful, John," Alan's eyes were blue wells of worry.

"You too," John nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Both of you. I'll be seeing you."

The doors leading to the garage were kicked in with one splintering blow. Alan and Gordon dove for the door next to it, slamming it shut over the noise of the people pounding in loudly, shouting.

"Where are they?'

"There!"

"Follow him!"

There was pounding feet. John had leapt into the narrow back stairwell halfway down the corridor, and was climbing fast.

Alan slapped the suddenly flimsy seeming lock shut and followed Gordon down the stairs into the pitch black basement. Gordon had left the torch on a pile of boxes near the door, pointing to the back wall of the small cellar. It illuminated the glittering glass bottles sitting in the floor-to-ceiling wine racks, and past them Gordon, wading through old boxes of various stuff they'd collected over the years, shoving them aside as he fought toward the shelves, cursing and muttering.

Alan grabbed the torch after slinging on his pack, and moved toward his furious older brother.

"We can't just leave. We can't. We've got to do something for them," Alan said, his breath coming in pants.

Gordon whirled on him. "What would you suggest we do? Huh? Run up there all gung-ho and save the day? Pull magic wands out of out butts and teleport away?" Gordon was yelling, right in Alan's face.

Alan backed away, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I just…"

Gordon ran a frustrated hand over his face. "No, I'm sorry," he replied contritely. "I know what you mean. This is so frickin' wrong." He reached out to ruffle Alan's hair. "But John's right, dammit. It's wrong and it's unfair and it sucks and there's nothing else we can _do_!" Gordon kicked a random box hard against the wall, breathing harshly. "We just have to get out. We can't take on all of them."

Above them, there was a rattle of the doorknob, and a shaking of the door.

"Come on, gimme a hand," Gordon said urgently. He moved to the shelves at the back, and braced against the corner. Alan got on the other side, similarly braced. "Okay, go." They heaved sideways, and the heavy shelves toppled forward. Behind them were clapboard panels, which were similarly pulled away. Behind that a tiny door, square, sat at the bottom of the floor. Gordon yanked it open, revealing in the torchlight a brick and wire lined, dank, dirt floored passage – a seemingly forgotten space between the structural walls of the house. There was, echoing in the distance, a faint sound of trickling water coming from it.

"This'll get us into the storm drains. Get in," He gave Alan a shove into the passageway, so narrow that Alan had to remove his pack and push it ahead of him. He half turned to look at Gordon, who handed him the torch. "Gordon?" he asked uncertainly.

"Just a sec, Sprout," Gordon had his old smirk back. "I'm going to leave them a little memento from us."

There was a pounding coming from the door at the stairs now. Above them, even through the thick ceiling, Gordon could here dozens of feet running around above, people yelling and, hah, giving orders.

He went to the wine racks, and selected a few bottles with the air of a connoisseur. "1999, 2012, 2015, 2050…such a waste."

He grabbed four, two in each hand by the necks, and with a slight grimace, threw them hard at the foot of the stairs, pooling alcohol at the stairs. He grabbed more as he backed up, leaving a shimmering trails of liquid and broken glass in the dark. The door was slowly being broken in by several hard kicks.

"Gordon!" Alan hissed from the tunnel.

"Just keep going!" Gordon turned back to the door as it finally gave up under the onslaught. Three or four men climbed past the wreckage, and started down the stairs.

"Hey guys!" Gordon called to them. "I'm just going to say it! With Love, from the Tracys!"

The fireball surged along the alcohol and flooded up the narrow stairway with so much force that men were thrown back by it, all the way against the corridor wall opposite. Before they even slid down the wall, the small door was closing, blocked by a wall of rising flames and smoke.

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Virgil wasn't going to last much longer. Already over exerted from yesterdays rescue, he was in no condition for extra stress. The door, heavy, solid wood, was cracked and splintered, the hinges bent and distorted, the lock also. Nose already bleeding, nausea rising in his gut, Virgil held it grimly as long as he could, but had to give it up before he ended up collapsed on the ground. Waiting for the right moment, the wall was taken down, and the pounding men with a solid, professional looking metal battering ram were suddenly falling inwards as the resistance they were expecting suddenly disappeared. Suddenly jammed in the doorway, the invaders were unable to immediately give chase as Virgil weaved away, through the kitchen, tipping the table into their path as he went. He got into the den and slammed the door behind him.

Virgil sagged against it, vision blurry. He was in no condition to run anywhere. There was still a siege going on at the front door. Virgil went towards it, feeling the need for safety in numbers.

He only got halfway across before the door behind him burst open, and men in suspiciously crisp casual clothing came. Virgil spun towards them and tried to erect a wall, but his reflexes had been slowed. There was a sharp prick in his neck, and suddenly his vision was nearly nonexistent. Staggering, trying to regain his footing on the swinging, shifting floor, Virgil sagged, hearing Scott's voice from far away.

"_Virgil! Get away from him!_"

Scott had been slowly driven back. Even with the bottleneck, there were too many invaders and Scott was fading, his head pounding and spinning. He got to the entrance of the den just in time to see Virgil fall.

Furious, he tried to drag the downed Virgil toward him, but the men who had piled in behind his brother were raising tranquiliser guns. Scott was forced to leap back into the entrance hall as the darts flew – right back into the range of the men coming in the front door.

These guys didn't have guns – they were armed with planks and pipes and fists, mostly. One guy took a swing at him, and ended up receiving a vicious elbow in the stomach. A woman, wild eyed, swung a pipe at him, glancing a blow off his shoulder. His foot caught her in a sweep, hitting her knee cap and sending her staggering back and getting her to knock down a couple of other guys as she fell. Scott threw a few more punches, and shoved everyone back in a massive surge, that caused all the people near him to stagger. The men from behind made it to the entrance hall. Suddenly there were voices yelling "PRA! Everybody freeze!" and a sudden wave of protest from the others in the hall. In the moment of confusion, one of the front door people came forward and caught Scott a blow on the back of the head.

He sank into unconsciousness, bitterly angry that he failed to protect his family.

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John went up the stairs at a speedy clip, just ahead of the following footsteps. He went up into the second floor, and dove into a familiar room at the end. He shut the door with meticulous care instead of slamming it, which threw off his followers as they reached the top of the stairs.

Breathing hard, John reflected that there was only once in his life he had ever been so frightened, and this time promised to be no better.

He looked around frantically as muffled steps thumped onto the floor. What did he have? The wardrobe was too small to hide in, full of shelves and stuff. The three beds in the room were ensembles – no space to hide under them. Behind the door? That would work for all of two seconds.

John's eyes turned to the window, in which his beloved brass telescope sat where he could watch the stars at night. It was more than big enough to climb through. But what then? This wasn't the convenient drainpipe, latticed creeper, raised stonework kind of house. It wasn't built to facilitate daring escapes. It was built simple and smooth and solid, a two storey drop into a world of pain – unless you could find a way to hang on to thin slats of wood used as an aesthetic framework across the grey stone.

Doors were being opened in the hallway. Only a couple of men had actually followed him up, but they were working their way along with speed. John drew in a breath, feeling their focused, methodical minds move closer. He'd have to risk it.

When the capped, plaid and leather wearing follower came in, tranquiliser at the ready, he was faced with an open window, blinds billowing. He moved toward it quickly – which gave John the opportunity to come up from behind the door and crack the man fair across the temple with his brass telescope. The man keeled over, his thoughts suddenly switched off.

Sometimes two seconds is all you need.

John crouched over the prone body, and ran an expert communications degree eye over the discreet radio headset the man wore. He also noted the crisp new clothes, so unused that the jeans still had their creases in them. Someone had planned not to be noticed.

He unhooked the headset from the man after removing his cap. He rifled through his pockets, finding a mobile phone, a billfold and an ID wallet. He looked it over carefully as he settled the headset over his own head. A babble of orders and codes hit him.

"_Team A, Team A, report from all points. Confirm capture. Team B, report position…Harley, check – no sighting…Enrique, check – civilian interference, repeat, interference – targets not acquired…Second penetration, report progress…Team A, use Tac 14-3, Tac 14-3…All teams report; what the hell is going on here?... civilian interference, sir, we believe one of the targets has been apprehended by non-militia – I repeat, non-militia interference in acquiring target…all point report, all point report…_

It sounded like the PRA was having a bit of trouble. John smirked – fine by him. From the corridor came a 'Shantino, check – no sighting', which echoed in John's ears. He read off the ID in his hands "Larsen, check – no sighting," making his voice sound as deep as he could get it.

"Larsen? You didn't find the esper?" the man called Shantino said from the corridor. There were footsteps moving closer.

John concentrated. "Naw. He must have rabbited some other way," he said, and focused harder. "You better go on down and help the others, it's a bloody mess down there."

"No shit," Shantino replied suddenly, without any reason why, finding Larsen's idea an incredibly good one. Without even looking in on Larsen, which procedure dictated he should have done, he found himself going down the stairs, losing interest in the chase. To him, Larsen's voice was the same as it ever was.

John let out a breath as he walked away. Fooling people into hearing and seeing things was a lesser known but deeply feared trait in powerful telepaths, and it rarely worked. It's hard to change the nature of reality – you certainly couldn't do it for long.

But, it was useful. He looked at the unconscious Larsen – he was a blonde, tall man, stocky but fit. All you had to do was fool people for the first glance, then their eyes and minds would do most of the work for you. If you made the suggestion mentally that you were nobody, you could disappear from the foreground of a person's mind, becoming nothing more than furniture.

John meticulously began to remove the man's leather coat.

As he walked quietly downstairs, it pained him to see the damage to his home. Raging fanatics were spray painting filth on their walls, much of their properly was destroyed or being looted. He could see the focused PRA agents trying to restore some order in the chaos, but the crowd of flyer hangers had been larger than the consignment the PRA had sent, so they were in chaos. John was one of the few people to notice the smoke hanging in the air, billowing faintly, but increasing. Looked like Gordon had gotten a lick in, wherever he was.

Through the babble of thoughts around him he picked up a bit of information…_mission failed…I can't believe this! These stupid idiots!...stinking psychos…should be taken out and shot…I'm going to shoot someone!...We've got to move the car before we can get the vans in…I've lost control…_

Wait, that was something he could use. Stepping entirely unnoticed up to the destroyed front door, John gently removed the familiar keys from their usual hook on the key rack. The little piece of familiarity was stark in the chaos, and John was surprised to find a lump in his throat. He couldn't see his brothers anywhere in the middle of this mess, and he didn't know if that was good or bad.

Worried and tense, John forced himself to be calm as he focused his subtle powers of suggestion on a man standing outside with a scowl on his face and the look of authority.

"Shall I move the car, sir," John held up the keys to explain.

The man, commander, whoever he was, looked at him and right through him. John had his full focus turned on him, willing the man's mind away from suspicion or recognition.

The man nodded curtly. "Do so. Park it outside."

John nodded, and hurried to the SUV. Pretty soon memory would kick in, then this little trick would stop working.

He started up the car and backed it out. What had started out as a covert operation was suddenly a public circus – people from all over the neighbourhood had come to watch, the unmarked vans were hastily pulling away before anyone could really notice them and John knew his brothers could be loaded onto them. He hoped against hope that they weren't. Fire trucks were coming down the street, and police cruisers were pulling up. People started fleeing the burning house, adding to the chaos. The authorities clearly didn't know where to start.

As John backed out into the street and put the car out of reverse, his eye caught the staring face of a young man watching from the seat of a car across the road, and knew from the look on his face that he had been made. John hit the accelerator before the man could finish sending the message on his radio, and wove around the fire trucks that turned out to be a blessing, for as they parked they blocked the car with the young man in it from following, and the vans too.

John didn't feel triumphant. Instead he watched his former home dwindle out of sight, and felt nothing but dread for his family.

-------------------------------------------

"Climb through right there."

Gordon and Alan made their slow way through the drainage pipe and across the dank concrete, using the tiny thoroughfare to escape from the danger zone. They squeezed through a conduit and out into an open space where several water pipes converged into well drain. As they climbed out of the pipe, they managed to sidle onto the tiny concrete lip that bordered the watery well. It was dark in the tunnels, but the light from the torch reflected off of the water. The air was stagnant and mouldy.

Alan pressed against the wall as he waited for his brother to emerge, swearing, from the crawl space. He watched the back pack pop out and swing over the water as Gordon pulled himself through and edged along the lip.

Sometime in the past a long and very narrow plank had been slung over the well – it now looked ominously dark and moist, and unsafe.

"Okay, we go across here and out there," Gordon pointed to the pipe on the other side, next to the thin plank.

"You're kidding, right?" Alan stared in disbelief. "Across that thing? Why can't we go into one of those pipes?" He pointed to the other pipes accessible from the lip; they were big enough to crawl through.

"Because those are incoming pipes – every so often they discharge into the chamber. Hard." Gordon raised an eyebrow at Alan. "Do you want to be bashed down half mile of pipe in a current that can break bones? That pipe," he pointed to their intended escape route. "Is a flood pipe. When the chamber floods it runs out into an open storm drain – you know the bridge on Rexington? There. We can travel along it and avoid the roads. Relax, it's safer than it looks."

"How do you know all this?"

"What do you think I was doing on my Saturdays off? You should learn to explore more," Gordon smirked.

There was a sound behind them – it wasn't a loud sound, but the echoing in the pipes made it louder. There was a scraping coming from their escape tunnel – slow, crafty movement.

"They've gotten into the tunnel," Alan whispered.

"Let's not mess around then. Move it," Gordon nudged Alan into place at the start of the rickety bridge across the water. "Relax. Even if you fall in, the water won't hurt you. Geez, I remember teaching you how to swim!"

"I remember you pushing me into the deep end of the pool," Alan retorted. He gingerly put a foot onto the spongy wood.

"Come on, Sprout," Gordon urged. There were definitely people in the tunnel. It would take a few minutes for them to get through. "I thought you were on the sprinting team!"

Alan shuffled with agonising care across the creaking plank, faltering and swaying occasionally as the plank wobbled and bent. Eventually, inch by inch, he made it across, gripping the pipe like a vice when he got across.

"Gordon, I'm going to kill you when we get out of here," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Gordon grinned. He walked up onto the plank more confidently than his brother. Halfway across, his grin faded, as another sound started to fill the chamber. A roaring sound. A breeze started blowing through one of the pipes off to the side.

"Damn, it must be nine!" Gordon dove back the way he had come, throwing his pack ahead. He was just not quite fast enough. Just as his pack landed on top of the pipe, the water, dirty and icy, came shooting out of the pipe and across the plank.

"Gordon!" Alan yelled as his brother went flying into the suddenly churning water. "Gordon?"

The distinctive red head bobbed to the surface, being swirled by the current. The once still water as now a whirlpool, fast and merciless, spinning anything in it around like dry leaves in a drain. With strong strokes honed by hours of training for competition, Gordon fought his way back to the lip, and slowly clawed his way back up onto it.

"Gordon, are you okay?" Alan called over the roar of water. The sudden burst was slowing to a less fierce current, running out of discharge.

"That really sucked," Gordon coughed as he perched on the lip. He looked out across the expanse, and immediately noticed something missing. "What happened to the…"

"Your foot hooked it when you fell," Alan explained miserably. "I tried to grab it."

Their bridge was now swirling in the churning, whirlpool of water.

"Great," Gordon spluttered. He wiped his face, and slowly raised his slightly battered body up to stand on the lip. "Just perfect."

"What now? Can you swim across?" Alan asked.

Gordon looked down at the swirl. "No way."

"I can try…"

"If I can't do it, you can't do it," Gordon stated firmly.

They stared at each other.

Gordon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. His loud pants could be heard above the boiling water, but above that, there came the sound of people getting closer in the tunnel.

"_They're down here…ere…ere_."

"Okay," Gordon breathed. "Stick with the plan. Just go straight, until you hit the metal grill. Rattle it until it comes loose, there's a ladder up the side of the drain you can get up."

"No, bad idea," Alan shook his head.

"You got a better one?" Gordon challenged. "Go on, you can make it. You're a big boy now," he smirked.

"You're such a jerk!" Alan replied angrily. "What about you?"

"I'll go through that one," he pointed to the still pouring pipe on the side.

"What happened to being bashed through half a mile?"

"It won't discharge for a while now," Gordon said reassuringly. "I can use it to get out through one of the kerb lids."

"Well…okay," Alan said eventually. In truth he was fighting panic. His whole family was being separated, and it was an unusual and unwelcome feeling to suddenly be without their support. "What…should I do?"

It cost Alan a lot of pride to ask, but to not do so was not a viable option.

Gordon lips thinned. "You should," he paused. "You should get to the train station. Yeah! You'll come out real close to it. Take the train to New York, first one you can get. You've got the money, right?"

"Yeah," Alan confirmed, looking almost queasy. "Are you going to follow?"

"I'll try, Sprout, but I'll be going the long way round," Gordon tugged his pack loose from the top of the pipe. "You listen to me, Alan. Don't wait around for me, alright? First train on the timetable, you get on it. Promise me," Gordon demanded.

"But…"

"Alan! We're being chased by guys with guns! They're not playing around! You're not going to stand around like a dork at the station and wait to get caught! We got enough problems!" Gordon glared across the watery expanse.

The crawling noises were getting closer still.

Gordon actually looked at the expression on Alan's face. "Look, just…just promise me, okay? It's okay. You probably won't even reach New York." Gordon reached under his waterlogged clothes, and withdrew his silver chain. "We've got these, right? Dad knows where we are – he's probably already on his way. All we have to do is stay ahead of them. Stay ahead, and wait for Dad to come. We'll probably be sitting in Dad's office in hour from now doing play-by-plays, right? So just promise. It won't be for long."

Alan sighed. "Fine. I promise, okay?" Shifting for a moment on his feet, he added. "I don't like this, Gordon."

"Finally, we agree on something," Gordon replied, grinning. "Other than Scott's a stiff, John's a geek and Virgil's compensating for size, of course."

Quiet whispers were reaching them now, they were only a minute or so a way.

"Move it!" Gordon hissed. "Remember, first one to New York, twenty bucks." He sidled towards his pipe and tossed his pack in.

"Yeah," Alan said, tossing his own bag into his own escape route, and switched off the torch, in case it was attracting their followers. About to clamber in, he paused, half crouched at the mouth. "Gordon?"

"What?" came the impatient reply out of the gloom.

"The museum thing?" Alan whispered. "Thanks. For sticking up for me."

There was silence in the darkness for moment, before Gordon made a shifting sound. "No sweat. Besides," his voice took on an echo quality as he climbed into the pipe. "Everyone knows you've got to do random acts of kindness to break the terror every once in a while, otherwise it'll never take."

"What won't take?"

"Stockholm Syndrome," Alan could feel Gordon's smirk. "Yours is coming along quite nicely, by the way."

Alan shook his head. "Dork." He climbed into his pipe, pushing his bag ahead of him.

"Watch your language, Sprout. And watch your back," Gordon whispered back.

Alan wanted to answer him, but he could hear the individual scrape of knees now. Instead, he turned and did a fast scurry along the pipe, trying to be as quiet as he could.

Alan wondered what Gordon would say if he knew that Alan knew just how scared he was?

Holding back his shaking panic, Alan continued in the dark, alone.

------------------------------------

"….when we arrived the place was already burning up. The PRA was gone, the police were trying to round up as many of the fanatics as they could, but most of them had gone to ground by the time everything got sorted out." Takazo was sweating, shifting uneasily under the weight of the stares pointed at him. "I checked with the fire chief at the scene, sir," he added hastily. "The fire fighters were able to check every level of the house, including the basements. They rescued a few loonies and thieves trapped on the upper levels, but they never said anything about finding any psychics."

Jeff was breathing very hard. "I want a contingent of security people, right now. Did you get the tapes from the cameras?" Jeff barely waited for the nod. "Take them apart, get any information you can. I want to know where they went, how it started, the key players – I want it within half an hour, no excuses," Jeff started striding down the stairway, and people literally leapt out of his way. "I'm going there now to…"

"With due respect, sir," Randall cut into Jeff's pure wrath. "That is a bad idea."

"What? _What_?" Jeff's outraged voice echoed all the way down the stairway as he whirled on his security chief. "My sons are in danger and alone, _Mr _Randall. I will do what ever I damn well can to get them back. You have two options, help me, or get out of the way!"

His employees were backing away from their CEO. They had never seen Jeff Tracy in such a frenzy. They were awed, therefore, that Randall stuck to his guns in the face of it.

"I _am_ helping you Jeff," Randall reached out to try to grip Jeff's shoulder. "The PRA will still be watching the place, and you're on top of their most wanted list. You won't do them any good getting arrested. Don't act foolishly now, not when you're still ahead of the game."

Jeff moved like a striking snake. Before anyone knew what was happening, Randall was pinned against the wall of the stairwell, despite the fact he had about twenty pounds of muscle on his pinner.

"_Ahead_ of the _game_? _My sons are out there alone and being hunted, if they're not captured already! What do you expect me to do? Just sit here_?" Jeff's enraged shout bounced back and forth, leaving behind a vacuum of helpless silence.

Then there was a sound. It was not a loud sound. A soft, sleepy murmur that suddenly broke through the foot thick tension, that made Jeff blink in shock and slowly turn his head around.

Fermat was shifting tiredly in his father's arms, murmuring at the noise as his father moved down the stairs to Jeff's landing. His face was grim, his eyes were kind. "L-l-l-…heed him, Mr Tracy," Brains spoke only softly, holding his son tight. "As l-l-long as you are out of, uh, the A-A-Agency's control you still have the p-p-p-p…the ability to act. I am s-s-sorry, Mr Tracy," Brains seemed to sag a little. "I am sorry to, uh, have gotten you in the m-m-m-…the centre of this. I am s-s-s-s…I regret it."

Jeff shut his eyes slowly, and gave a tiny shake, as if to dislodge a troublesome thought. Something about the scientists' abject sorrow over events which he didn't ask for and had no control over had flipped the switch on Jeff's panic.

He took a breath, and let Randall go. "No, we're not going to do this," Jeff shook his head again. "We're not going to play the blame game, we're not going to run around headless chickens," he reached out and gripped Randall's shoulder in an unspoken apology. "You're both right. We have to stay clear of the PRA, we have to be able to take control. And I don't regret it Brains," Jeff added firmly. "You needed help, and you are a friend. The PRA can't get the device. I did the only right thing, and so did you."

Jeff ran a tired hand across his face. Compartments, that was the key. Break things down into their parts, that's how you make them work. Do what you can, when you can.

"Stanley! You in here somewhere?" He called through the crowd.

"Yes sir?" The lanky head of Tracy Corp's Press Relations raised a hand from a floor down on a landing. He bent over the railing so he could look up as his boss.

"I want you to organise an emergency press conference for tonight. The PRA will be storming the gates in about thirty minutes I reckon, so I want it done in twenty. Every reporter you can shake out of bed, understand?"

"Yes sir!" Stanley began using his angular elbows to work through the crowd, a few of his staff following.

"Randall, what I said before still holds," Jeff turned to the security head. "I want every set of eyes you can spare watching those tapes – find out what happened to my sons, everything." Jeff's lips twitched for a moment, and he shook his head. Compartments. One thing at a time, that was how the whole machine was built. "I expect a full report after the press conference – thirty minutes, I suggest you get started."

Randall shot him a salute, and called his teams to order. They literally ran down the stairs, a stampede of steel capped boots.

"Mrs Collen? Call Erbehart for me, tell him to stay on the line, I think I'll need his kind of help."

The grey head bobbed once. "Yes, Mr Tracy."

"The rest of you," he looked over the loyal faces tiered down the stairwell, all tired, sleepless faces, all ready to take whatever order he gave. Jeff couldn't decide whether that gave him a thrill or a chill. "Look busy. I don't have time to explain right now, but Tracy Corp is about to be pitted against the PRA and maybe even the government. I don't want any of you breaking the law or getting into trouble on my account, but I appreciate the loyalty and willingness you've shown by being here. Just do your jobs and follow whatever directives you're given – the PRA are about to look very hard at us, and it won't do to antagonise them. Do you're work with the same talent and competency you've always shown, and you will be helping me. And," Jeff gave a tight smile. "You're all in for a pay rise if you stick with it."

There was laughter and applause. Jeff wove his way through the crowd even as it descended and broke up into the various departments, one hand catching Brains on the shoulder as he went to urge the man to follow.

Brains wasn't clapping – he wouldn't have been even is his arms hadn't been full of sleeping boy. He had been watching Jeff's eyes, and had felt their pain and fear like a diamond tipped auger.

He looked down at his peacefully reposed son. It would be worth it. It had to be.

They retired to the office, Jeff not saying a word as they went.

--------------------------------------------

There was just no way to avoid it. The team leaders had already given their reports, and his own superior was waiting for his. Mr Fenill fumbled for his cell phone, one hand on the steering wheel. Ahead, his car's headlights shone off the back panels of the unmarked isolation van, which Mr Fenill was tailing to the drop off point.

He punched a number on the speed dial, and reluctantly raised it to his ear.

"Fenill, report," the curt, cold voice on the other end ordered.

Mr Fenill felt an odd, sinking sensation. He was certain the man already knew about the whole mess, he was just waiting for Mr Fenill to actually say it out loud and official.

"Not good, sir," Mr Fenill replied, his voice betraying none of his nervousness or dismay. "The civilian anti-psychic group that gathered around the house followed the teams in, thinking it as some sort of civilian raid. The teams went in through the planned entry points, but the fanatics interfered with the strategy. There were also some unexpected security measures on the house itself. By the time we got in, the targets had all split into different directions and the civilians on the scene were blocking or foiling any concerted attempt at chase."

"Frankly, sir," Mr Fenill grimaced as he continued. "It was a fiasco. We couldn't risk hitting the civilians, especially after one officer identified himself as PRA. We cornered two of the five targets in the lower level of the house, but the other three evaded capture. The pyrokinetic started a fire in the basement, which bought the fire department and the police in – we were forced to withdraw our forces several blocks. A few covert operatives managed to get back into the house when the fire had cleared out the fanatics, and cleared a path to the basement. We believe at least two of the targets, the youngest, escaped out a maintenance space that lead in the storm drains around the house. The operatives followed, but their reports don't sound too promising – it's a labyrinth down there. The telepath," Mr Fenill took a breath to ready himself. "Performed some sort of mental hypnosis on the operatives in the house in order to get out – he escaped in their own vehicle and with all the police and emergency services personnel around we were unable to follow him immediately." Mr Fenill would never forget looking up and seeing one of their targets, the second son, walking away, not a single highly trained operative able to spot him. It was incidents like these that made his opinion of rogue psychics fully justified.

"So out of five, we got two," his superior's voice was ominously dull.

"No, sir," Mr Fenill closed his eyes. "We acquired only one target. The second one trapped on the lower levels was captured by the fanatics in the riot – they incapacitated him and removed him from the scene before the police could follow. Our operatives were blocked from following by the police and other fanatics, and the fire. The one we have is on his way to the base now, sir."

There was an icy, angry silence over the line. Mr Fenill gripped the steering wheel hard as it continued, knowing he was being unnerved on purpose.

"One target. Out of five. In a confined space," the man at the other end summed up with glacial abruptness. "This is a disaster, Mr Fenill. It's your disaster, Mr Fenill. I want the rest of them found and confined within the next twelve hours. Jeff Tracy slipped the scientist and his son through our fingers, but we're going to finish that part of the operation now. We need leverage, understand? If they are not found as ordered, you will be reassigned to a post more fitting of your competency level."

Mr Fenill gritted his teeth. _You were the one you wanted to use the civilians_, flashed across his mind, and he was startled by the resentful thought. Casting it aside, he replied to his superior in an even, unworried tone. "That won't be a problem, sir. I've called up every reserve in the state. I've got them canvassing the streets and I'll soon have them posted at every depot and station. I've put their faces out on the fugitive psychic network, and soon the media will have them as well. Every authority in the nation will be on the lookout, they won't be able to avoid it. I've already got men looking over the surveillance tapes, others tracking the fanatical groups in the area and the location of the escape car the telepath used. They can't have gotten far, sir."

"You're underestimation has served you well so far, Mr Fenill," came the sarcastic reply. "I will take over the search personally. I have the authority to access the Loyals, and I'll use them to track the Tracys down. You're new assignment will be the scientist, Dr Hackenbacker. Find him, and his son. Tracy must have taken him back to Tracy Corp, but I'll wager he won't be there for very long. It will be your job to find where Tracy has stashed him and take him into custody. I'm sure I don't need to tell you what will happen if you can't manage that, Mr Fenill."

Mr Fenill closed his eyes, humiliated and angered by his sudden demotion from the head of the operation to a mere tracker for the least of the psychics involved. "No, sir," he spoke with tense, flat calm. "I will get right on it."

There was a click, not even a platitude goodbye was attempted. Frustrated and embittered, Mr Fenill slapped the phone down onto the dashboard and gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make it creak. This was a disaster, and it looked like he was going to be to blame. Such were the pitfalls of rising in the Agency – the higher ups rarely were in the line of fire when it came to punishment for failure, it always descended onto the levels below. Mr Fenill himself had fired the field operative that let John Tracy walk out under his nose, and intended to instil the fear of God into several more. It wouldn't help, he knew, but Mr Fenill truly believed in his agency, and would be a bastard in the name of its effectiveness.

Eventually, he picked up the phone again. "Get me a list of all the properties and housing developments connected with Tracy Corp or owned by the Tracys. We need to check them over. He's harbouring a fugitive, and it's our job to root him out."

Ahead, their one captured prize lay in the van, oblivious to the journey, or the destination.

-----------------------------

End Part VI


	7. The Roads Taken

Disclaimer: The author of this fic does not own the Thunderbirds, and does not claim to, and also claims no profit either, darn it.

Warnings: Violence, mild bad language, adult themes, dark situations – not for the kiddies, kiddies.

Authors Notes: Whoo – Part seven finally up and running. I wish to apologise for the delay, but I had a very painful ear infection, extra social commitments and just plain fatigue lately. It didn't help at all that I wasn't exactly sure where to go from part six. I mean, I knew where the story started and where it ends, but the middle bit's details weren't exactly clear. Don't worry, it's forming. I actually wanted to put a whole other scene in this chapter, but I decided to put it in the next one, since it works just s well there, and this one had taken long enough.

And you know, I realised I haven't once thanked my reviewers in the last two parts or so? That's really rotten, I love the comments and critiques I am getting – please, keep it up, and add your own, it really motivates me to write more! And Thankyou!

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Part VII – The Roads Taken

_In which there is – Faith – Safe House – Fermat's Awake – An Exit – Mr Erbehart's Connections – The Roads Taken - Gordon Tracy, Multilingual Blasphemer – Old Fear – John's Journey – A New Plan – Scott's Ride – Lashed and Left – Gordon's Girl, No More – A Place to Hide – The Wicked Witch of Walton – A Silver Lining? – Down the Drain – Through the Darkness – Train Station – Hysteria & Panic – The PRA Closes In – The Captive Dreams_

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The office was dim and seemed to dull noise as Jeff and Brains entered, and Jeff didn't turn on any extra lights than the dim corner bulbs that operated while the building was on night mode. Jeff went straight to the bar in the corner, seldom used even on the worst days, and Brains tactfully turned away to lay his son on the wide leather couch whole the sound of a slightly shaking bottle neck tinkled on the edge of a high quality glass.

When he finally turned back to the desk after tucking his trademark white coat over his son, Brains saw Jeff sitting at his desk, head in his hands, glass of bourbon untouched next to him. He sat and waited.

"I'm not exactly giving you much reason right now to have faith in me, Brains," Jeff said eventually, his voice hoarse and weary.

"On the c-c-c-contrary, Mr Tracy," Brains replied, unruffled. "I have, uh, far more f-f-fai…confidence in a man who, uh, c-c-c…feels responsibility than, uh, a man who d-d-does not."

Jeff actually looked up at the other man, and the first thought that crossed his mind was that Brains looked almost nondescript without the white lab coat. "Drink?" he offered with a sigh.

Brains tilted his head. "M-m-m-may…perhaps when this is, uh, all over, Mr Tracy. You should know, uh, the PRA w-w-w-will not harm your sons. Th-th-they are, uh, more, uh, useful h-he-he-he…a-a-al-al…safe than hurt. St-st-statistically speaking."

Jeff closed his eyes. He knew this. Of course, he knew this. It was no comfort at all. He sat back in the chair, and grabbed a handful of coins. Brains waited patiently as they shifted and moved across the desk.

"Tell me something, Brains. How do you feel about country living?"

Brains raised an eyebrow. Before he could formulate a theory as to the meaning of the question, the buzzer on the desk buzzed.

"Mr Tracy? Mr Erbehart is on the line," Mrs Collen's voice came through.

"Put him through, then send for Randall, Mrs Collen," Jeff ordered crisply.

Brains did not like to eavesdrop, even on a one-sided conversation, so he went and sat with his son while Jeff spoke quietly to the attorney on the other end.

He blinked when he realised Fermat was awake, He was laying there quietly, not quite fully aware but definitely conscious. "F-F-Fermat?"

"D-D-D-Dad?" Fermat blinked heavily. "Wh-wh-wh…Did something happen?"

Brains gently picked up his son and settled him on his lap. "In a manner of sp-sp-sp…Sort of," Brains replied. "Do you re-remember what, uh, ha-ha-ha…occurred at the lab?"

Fermat moved sluggishly as he thought about it. He still wasn't operating at one hundred percent. "Th-th-they asked me to…h-h-h-help. I got lost. 'M s-s-sorry Dad."

Brains hugged Fermat consolingly. "It al-al-al…its okay, son. They tr-tr-tr-tr…fooled you. It wasn't your, uh, fault."

"Wh-wh-wh…"

Conversations between father and son were often a matter of prediction and guessing. "T-T-Tracy Corp. Do you remember i-i-it?"

"Yeah," a tired but delighted smile lit up the boys face. "I 'member. A-a-a-are you g-g-going to-to be w-w-w-w...did you get a job here?"

Brains grinned. "Yep."

"C-c-cool."

"V-v-v-very, uh, cool," Brains agreed.

"W-w-what's happening, dad?" Fermat glazed blearily around the unfamiliar office.

"Do-do you remember what I, uh, t-t-told you about the sle-sle-sleeping cap?" Brains explained.

"Yeah?"

"S-s-someone found o-o-o-out our little se-se-se-secret. It's very important that it, uh, is protected." Brains said.

"The P-P-P….the government want it," Fermat guessed. "A-a-and Mr Palton. T-t-to con-con…to have power over psy-psychics."

"Yes. Exactly," Brains nodded, entirely unsurprised at the speed which Fermat reached the logical conclusion.

"I didn't tell, Dad," Fermat denied vehemently. "Hon-hon-honest."

"I, uh, kn-kn-know you didn't," Brains assured soft, rubbing his sons dark hair affectionately.

"Fermat? You're awake?" Jeff had gotten off the phone with his lawyer, and had realised there was now a third person in the room. He came over to crouch down at the sitting level of the other two, managing to dredge up a small but sincere smile for the boy. "Remember me?"

Fermat smiled shyly at the tall man. "O-o-of course, Mr Tracy."

"I'm glad you're okay Fermat. Do you feel sick or anything?"

"M-m-my head h-h-h…aches a little. I'm o-o-okay."

"Okay. Brains? I have an idea where to send you, but it's well out of the way. It should only be for a few days until the paperwork can all be sorted and we can get you out of the country. Is that alright?"

"I t-t-told you before that I, uh, leave the m-m-mat…situation in your hands, Mr Tracy." Brain s shrugged eloquently, indicating nothing had changed.

"Good. Just give me a minute. The person I'm sending you to will take good care of you, I guarantee it."

He went back over to his desk to dig around in the drawers.

"Wh-wh-where are we go-go-going, Mr Tracy," Fermat asked, startled.

Jeff grinned as he told him.

A few minutes later Randall showed up, looking grim. "We still haven't finished with the tapes yet, sir. The press room is taking on reporters. Stanley reckons they'll be ready at full capacity in about ten minutes or so. We've picked up PRA transmissions on the scanner – they're closing in."

Jeff sighed. It was to be expected. Hopefully Erbehart was a well connected legally as he claimed to be, or they would quickly run out of options. "Randall, I want you to take these two down to the underground line. Go with them, take them to the harbour pad and book out a Cessna. I've registered a flight plan for you in the system – just follow the dotted line, then get back here after you drop them off. Make sure you're not followed."

Randall didn't look at all happy about this, but the look in Jeff's eye warned him not to argue. He saluted. "Yes, sir. Dr Hackenbacker?" He gestured to the gangly scientist.

Brains rose, taking is son by the hand. With his free one, he reached out to take Jeff's outstretched one.

"Gook luck, Brains," Jeff shook his hand. "This is not the way I would have chosen to part, but we have no time for anything else. I may not be able to contact you, but the minute the asylum papers come through, I'll send for you."

"I-I-It is not the uh, parting, but the re-re-reunion that is the v-v-vital thing," Brains grinned at him. "It w-w-will be alright, Mr Tracy."

"Yeah," Jeff tried to believe it. He watched the scientist trail after Randall, his son peppering him with curious questions as they went.

Jeff turned back to his desk and perched on it, stoop shouldered, trying to think past his worry and despair and helplessness. Where were they? Were they hurt? Were they alone? Together?

_Where were his sons?_

-------------------------------------------

Rodolphus Erbehart had been forced, in the name of his profession, to do many strange things at the request of his clients – reveal family skeletons, unexpected fortunes, unexpected lacks of fortunes. At the top of his list so far was flying to Africa to watch an obscure tribal bloodletting for the sake of a late client's will reading, who apparently chuckled silently in the grave over the idea of forcing his greedy relatives to watch a bull sacrificed and drinking the blood and being painted completely nude surrounded by predators to learn that none of them would be getting a cent. Fortunately for Mr Erbehart, he hadn't been included in the actual ceremony, just the reading of the will afterward. Seeing the looks on their gormless faces had almost been worth the dust, insects and lack of good restaurants.

But now he had, he checked his watch, twenty minutes to legally defend his client from the PRA – an organisation whose legal control of psychics was nearly absolute. Jeff had told him the whole situation – the device, the scientist and his son, the attacks. His wife Griselda had been upset at being woken until she learned of the reason, and then Erbehart had found himself dressed, packed and ready to go in two minutes, his wife scolding from the door to call as soon as he learned anything and to move his posterior.

He had been turning the problem over in his mind, and the attacks on both the scientist's son and the Tracy boys seemed to give him some legal grounds to get ahead of the PRA – there were clearly violations of authority here, and even the PRA had a checking mechanism in the government. Time to call in the Miles-Keye Commission, the internal auditors of the PRA.

Usually the panel of Judges that made up the Commission would take weeks to come to a decision regarding the need for an investigation, but apparently Erbehart had about the time it would take it would get him to Tracy Corp. He would be forced to use his back door – seldom if ever resorted to, because it sat nastily against his ideal of ethics. But for Mr Tracy, he was willing to take the lesser evil.

He flipped open his phone as he clambered into his Mercedes, pressing number one on his speed dial. "Judge Erbehart, please," he asked clearly as the familiar secretary's voice came on the line.

He waited for him to pick up, listening for the familiar "Hello?"

"_Gott im Himmel, mein Bruder! So spät arbeiten_?"

"_Of course I work late, Rodolphus,_" his brother Rudolf said jovially. "_Unlike you lawyers, us Judges have actual work to do._"

Mr Erbehart, lawyer, snorted at the old in-joke. "I have a rather large favour to ask, brother, in line with your role on the Miles-Keye…."

-----------------------------------------------------

Gordon kept up a litany of barely voiced curses as he slithered along the underground tunnels through gods knows what had been washed from the gutters.

He could feel the others in the pipes. They hadn't been able to follow Alan, but he was fair game. One his side there were the spiders web of crawlspaces and conduits, pipes and drains – a dozen men could be down here and it would still be possible to slip by them, especially if you knew all the ways.

Arabic. Spanish. Chinese. German. Like all teens, Gordon was a multilingual blasphemer. He said words that would make a submariner blush – which worked out well, because he planned to be one, one of these days.

Gordon couldn't believe this was happening. Just fifteen minutes, yes, he was sure, fifteen minutes ago he was annoying his brothers, which was his default past time. And now he crawled through the mud and the filth, soaking wet, carrying a heavy bag, trying to escape their chasers, his family who knows where.

There was a hot, tight feeling in his stomach. The urge to scream and shout and _burn_ at the unfairness of it all almost swallowed him whole. He felt an irrational but powerful urge to yell out to the men following him, taunt them, bring them closer, just so he could see their faces when the fire burst along the closed in spaces like a solid, molten punch.

Gordon took a breath. That would be stupid. More then that, it would be wrong. Gordon had never burnt a single living thing on purpose – mostly because he remembered the times when he hadn't done it on purpose. His earliest and most traumatic memory was the raised, blistered bands on his mothers forearms, the skin so burnt it had been blackened. He'd been chucking a tantrum about something – probably something very important to a three year old – and that hot, angry feeling had been there then, too. It had flowed up his spine, seared his mind, and suddenly there was a hot, raging fire in his hands where he'd been gripping his mothers arms, struggling to free himself from her restraint.

She hadn't cried. Gordon remembered that. After that first startled yelp, she hadn't shed a tear, made a sound. She had hung on as the fire burned itself out almost an instant later, Gordon still with horror. She had smiled at him, even thorough her pain, and told him that it was okay, mommy was fine. Somehow, it was worse than tears.

John hadn't been far off the mark when he said Gordon lived in conflict. Gordon stayed near the water from that day on. He was a danger - he hurt people, he destroyed things but the water made him safe. He couldn't hurt people with water around him. No one had been angry with him, and maybe it would have helped his conscience if they had been. But he had learned the first thing he had ever learned about his ability – he could hurt people by just thinking it. He was probably the only three year old in the world that had started to watch his own thoughts, and the stress of it put him in therapy.

No, his anger was not even close to his oldest fear. Gordon had never burnt anyone on purpose and he wasn't going to start, not even now.

Twisting up a drainpipe that seemed too small to fit him, he popped up into what looked like a small concrete tunnel that had tiny windows set along it. A street gutter drainage tunnel. The light from the street lamps shone through the windows, the opening lids on the kerbs.

If Gordon had calculated it right, he was on the right street. Now he just had to convince her to help him.

Behind him, the PRA's yelled back and forth in the tunnels, hopelessly lost.

------------------------------------------------------

John rolled the car into the city centre, found a secluded, out of the way corner and parked. His hands stayed at the wheel, his eyes looked into the middle distance, but John saw nothing. He looked at his hands, white knuckled on the wheel.

Now what? John's mind, usually methodical and logical, seemed to have lost its focus. For the first time in many years John felt too young.

He tilted his head from its angle towards the dashboard, looking out through the windscreen. He had parked in a second storey garage, mostly abandoned, in a rundown industrial zone. Across the warehouses and storages and container yards, the city skyline stretched, picked out in spires of lights. It looked like a galaxy, and John spent a few precious minutes just staring at the sparkling lights, picking out constellation patterns in them. Ursa Minor. Southern Cross. Orion. The Big Dipper, slid down a suspension bridge off to the side…

John shook himself. "Think, John Glenn, think," he hissed to himself. He couldn't go back to the house, the PRA were swarming, and the little trick responsible for the migraine now pounding behind his eyes wouldn't work twice. He couldn't go looking for his brothers – he had spent half the drive stretching out as far as his mind could receive, searching for those familiar, bright signals that he had, up until now, always been unconsciously keeping track off. What he had found was nothing, not ever a proverbial blip on the radar, and that was akin to being thrust into black water, blinded and isolated mentally. He had always needed them to bounce off of, to give him a sense of location and an idea of what made him himself.

John watched the lights for a moment. Mentally, he tried to calculate the highest buildings from the perspective he had. From the distraction, Palton Tower suddenly took up his attention. Palton Tower…Dad had gone there, hadn't he? He hadn't wanted them to know, but the name had emerged clear from his thoughts, which attested to the power of the feeling behind it. John knew his Dad, who seldom if ever judged anyone too harshly, refused to even deal with Palton - but John had never found out why.

He looked at the cars GPS system – well, there was one way to find out. Dad's Porsche had one like it, and it was all just transmit and receive, wasn't it? John was an artist at that. He switched it on, and began to finagle it a little. A few minutes later, he had a clear set of coordinates, and a bit of calculation and a street directory later he had Palton's compound.

Dad was there – or his car was. Whatever worked, since John couldn't keep using this one. The PRA was already chasing it.

John idly ran his hands over the vinyl steering wheel. Okay, time to get moving.

Clambered out of the car and headed for the back of it – he needed to take a few things while he was here.

Ten minutes later, he was moving out of the parking garage at a steady jog, the SUV's tool roll and gutted GPS transmitter under one arm. He loped through the streets at an unhurried pace of a late night exerciser, and stopped when he came to a post office.

Thank the gods for the post vending machines – you could order a prepaid package or envelope without needing to enter the office. He checked the few dollars he had happened to have in his pockets when he ran.

That should be enough. Feeling wicked and not a little bit enraged by the PRA and society in general at the moment, he decided to thumb his nose at them in a juvenile but entirely satisfying way.

There was a muffled thump as he stuck the package in the slot. Hefting the tool roll into a more secure position, John ran on.

He was forced, in the end, to go on foot the whole way there. He had no money left for public transport or a taxi, and the last thing he needed was to draw the attention of transit police. It took him half an hour of steady running to reach the outer compound, where he bent against the entrance walls, gasping for breath.

"I _need_ to get more exercise," John panted top himself, wiping the sweat from his face with one hand.

It hadn't been an easy run. Before he'd even gotten halfway along it became clear there were a lot of PRA patrollers and police cruisers out on the street – too many for an ordinary beat. John felt their minds as they drove around, watchful and tense, and had been forced to duck around into several alleyways and over the back walls of several residential blocks to avoid be noticed. The city streets were like an ant farm that had water tipped on it.

John's head still didn't feel any better. There had been a supply of heavy duty aspirin in the back of the SUV in the first aid kit, and even dry swallowing the chalky tablets had only slightly relieved it. His stomach ached from the unbroken stress and tension he was mired in and, try as he might, he couldn't force himself to relax completely.

John looked grimly into the closed in streets of Palton's compound – it was a big area to search for the car, but lucky for him he had an advantage. The Porsche's spare key had been of the SUV's key ring, just in case. And on the key was a tracking beeper – it helped people find their cars in the midst of endless parking complexes or busy streets.

It should work this close. He hit the button on the loop end of the key, and it started a slow beep. It would get faster as he got closer.

It took another twenty minutes of searching the deserted compound roads before he actually found Tracy 2, he had been forced to move slowly and carefully to avoid the odd patrol jeep from Palton's private security force. John slipped like a ghost into the Tower's underground parking garage, following the rapid beeping until he found the reassuring solid shape of his fathers beloved Porsche.

The car was cold and empty – apparently it had been for some time. John got in and turned of the anti-theft system. He looked at the entrance doors in the walls in front of him. Was Dad still here? One way to find out.

John opened his aching, pounding mind to the world again. There were so many people in the building even now as night fell, and their thoughts and memories filled John's own raw mind.

Groaning softly, he forced himself to work his way up, but what he picked was random trivia and mundane obsessions of thought. And then, out of the sheer tonnage of thoughts came a powerful word…_escaped_. John concentrated, zeroing in the harsh, hard mind that had sent out that signal, but could only catch a few random words in through his splitting head. _Escaped…call…find…_and then, as he accessed the memories of the building, experienced sense memories, the sound of air being torn rhythmically, the sound of screaming…

John suddenly lurched out of the car and made it to a support pillar before he threw up. He pressed his forehead to the cold concrete of the pillar when he was done, trying anything to relieve the ache in his brain.

Dad wasn't here. John knew the sound of his father's mind like he knew his own, and it wasn't anywhere within range of Palton's compound. The tension in John's gut worsened as he contemplated this. Dad wasn't here, he'd been forced to escape and abandon his car. Swallowing against the bile in his raw throat, John tried to collect his scattered thoughts to figure out the next plan.

Staggering and weaving, John made his way back to the Porsche, levering himself painfully into the drivers seat. He bent over the steering wheel, breathing hard.

He took a moment to think. Dad had said get to New York. Well, he could just drive there, but John was willing to bet this car wasn't going to be a safe one for long – it had been forgotten for now, but it wouldn't stay that way. The PRA was thorough when it came to hunting down psychics.

Fumbling with the keys, John only managed to get it into the ignition after several tries. His headache was so bad it was affecting his vision. Once managed, John paused.

In his condition, he would never be able to drive to New York, even if the car was safe – which it wasn't. That plan had not been formed with this kind of situation in mind anyway, John was certain of that. Dad had meant them all to go together.

What should he do?

John rubbed his forehead, trying to find a way to relieve the pain. What had Scott said, get to Dad, or get to New York? Maybe he could manage option A.

Slowly, he started the car, grunting as even the sound of the quiet engine was enough to rattle across his tortured brain cells. Slowly, he crawled the car out of the garage, out into the compound and into the night.

The journey was taken in a series of sections. The first one was manoeuvring his way out of the compound, out past the guards. Security in the outer compound was a diffident presence at best, something like what you'd find in a suburban housing complex. The real security was at Palton Tower, and John could hear the helicopters beating the air at the landing halo all the way up, the top of the building lit up like a Christmas star. John managed to get out easily enough. He probably hadn't avoided all the cameras, but that couldn't be helped.

The next section was just the streets. The PRA vans and police weren't looking for a Porsche, but Porche's attract attention and so, by extension, do the drivers. Overhead there was a buzz of surveillance choppers, many more than there usually should have been. He parked under several overpasses and in several covered spaces in order to avoid their spotlights, just in case. It was a longer trip than the ten or so minutes it should have taken to get to Tracy Corp, which was also in the city heartland. Quite apart from the agonising slowness needed to avoid the authorities, John was forced to stop every so often just to bend over the steering wheel, willing his blurred and greyed out vision to refocus, calming the nausea in his stomach.

Slowly, painfully, he made his way to familiar territory, Tracy Corp's modest but handsome spire emerging from the mess of blurry lights like an open door church.

It was the vans rolling by that warned him. They passed the Porsche hurriedly, not even acknowledging it. Their familiar black and red marking made John slam on the brakes, jolting his headache once again. He was only a block from the plaza that ringed Tracy Corp.

Apprehensive and frustrated, John exited the Porsche and walked up the street where he could watch without being seen. Just as he feared, the plaza was now a lot filled with black vans and other cars using it as a parking space. PRA tactical teams in black and red were swarming in and out of the building, peppered with guys in suits talking on phones or directing other people. The Tracy Corp security guys were escorting the teams in, and Tracy Corp was lit up bright on all levels.

John sidled back around the corner, leaned against the wall and put his head in his hands. Too late! The PRA were already all over Tracy Corp. There was no way in hell he'd ever get in there now – and if he knew PRA procedure right, he knew that simply phoning his father's office was out of the question now too. Looked like the PRA had been settled in for longer than just a few minutes, and that was how much time they needed to tap the communications and set up their surveillance.

John jumped as he felt something rattle in his pocket. A cell phone, set to silent. Digging around, he withdrew the phone he had stolen from the downed PRA agent back at the house. It was showing a call, but John was careful not to pick it up. He stared at the lit up LED display, one point of light in the darkness.

He kept staring at it.

Ye _Gods_ John Tracy, you're in the Honours program for Communications, and you think you can't make a phone call?

John snorted, slightly exasperated at himself, and gripped the phone hard. You could communicate with anyone, anytime, anywhere, if you knew the language. Languages were John's speciality.

He looked back longingly at Tracy Corp, but that door was closed him. He turned away quickly, knowing if he dwelled the frustration and fear would overwhelm him. His pounding head warned him to stay in control.

It was okay. Well, it would be. He had a plan now, a way to help his family and a way to thumb his nose at the PRA. He knew he could do it, he just needed to find the right building.

He ran an eye over the Porsche. It was too risky to take it – the PRA was clearly closing in. He removed the keys and turned on the anti theft locks, and after a moments pause, left a message for his Dad. With any luck, the security guys at Tracy Corp would notice the Porsche before the PRA did.

John ducked down on the kerb by the Porsche as another car rolled by, but it was just a lone Mercedes driving through the night. By the time it hit the corner, John had disappeared the other way.

------------------------------------------------

Scott woke up nearly in time to be knocked out again, in this case from cracking his head on the asymmetrical metal roof that was just an inch and a half over his head. There was a roaring, whining sound in his ears, and it took him several minutes for his aching head to comprehend that it was the sound of an engine, up close and personal. The air was caustic and stifling, every hot, heavy breath hurt his lungs. His limbs were twisted up and cramped, and he was learning the curse of a tall person folded into a small space. Suddenly he was bounced violently, and his head and shoulder really did hit the metal roof. Grunting with the new throbbing hot spot on his skull, his brain finally managed to add up the equation of the roaring, the bouncing and the claustrophobic conditions – had been stuffed into the trunk of a car. The nuts of the spare tire were digging mercilessly into his shins, and various tools and other detritus jabbed and crushed him in a dozen ways. It was pitch black.

Scott tried to shift, but it was a painful and futile action. He had been bound crudely with some sort of rough cord, and his arms were bent behind him painfully, the tight throbbing indicating a loss of circulation. He tried to concentrate to breathing normally – this wasn't a situation benefited by panicked hyperventilation. Trying to clear his muddied mind, Scott tried to piece together just what had gone wrong.

They had been attacked, he remembered that distinctly. Virgil had been sent to hold the back door, and Scott felt a shocking and overwhelming sense of guilt when he went back over that. Virgil was his younger brother, Scott was responsible for his safety and wellbeing; he'd ordered the younger man to that back door, and Virgil had done as told. And now, Scott banged his head, frustrated, on the threadbare and itchy carpet beneath him, now he was probably in the PRA's grip or in the same position as Scott – trussed up in a speeding metal coffin going who knows where.

Scott didn't think he was with the PRA; unless they had suffered a sudden, instantaneous, devastating budget cut, the PRA had access to all the most sophisticated means of psychic imprisonment known to man. They could do better than this loud and cramped car, with what sounded like shoddy mufflers and smelling like it had an oil burning problem.

The air was getting hotter and thicker. Scott was feeling light headed, his breathing was shallow. It was getting harder to take a breath. He felt the tug of inertia as the car careered around a sharp turn and, if Scott read the violent jolt that followed right, rolled two wheels over the kerb.

Scott's eyelids felt heavy, and his chest felt like it was being crushed. If it wasn't already pitch black there would be black spots in his vision. His eyes watered acidly. He tried desperately to stay awake, but was quickly too tired to really care about the air, or the bumps or anything else.

Just on the verge of passing out, there was suddenly a series of percussive jolts and a turn, and the car rolled to a stop. Scott was only vaguely aware of this, and of the blurry, slurred noises that in actuality were voices approaching the boot end of the car.

With a suddenness that made him jerk, the lid opened and cool air rushed in. Scott Tracy was unceremoniously and roughly yanked out of the confined space and dropped onto a gritty concrete floor under bright lights. While the voices overhead made incomprehensible sounds, Scott choked and coughed and he gasped at the suddenly fresh air, his eyes screwed tight shut against the over bright lights and his muscles screaming as circulation was suddenly restored to his unfolding limbs – it hurt, a lot.

Through all this his head pounded mercilessly, nausea attacked his stomach maliciously. When he finally managed to open his eyes – a mere slit, nothing more – his vision swam and doubled, causing his stomach to roil even more.

He felt something blunt nudge his shoulder, the toe of a heavy boot tipping him onto his back cautiously. He let out a pained grunt as he landed on his back, his still tied hands digging in as his weight settled. He tried to unclench them, but only had limited success.

He waited for the voices to start making sense. Overhead the disjointed sounds began to come into focus in his fuzzy brain.

"…_could take him to the club…"_

"_The PRA was chasing us for a while there. I think we should just dump him…"_

"_Aw c'mon, those guys are a bunch of pansies! Why should they get him? They believe in pandering to these freaks, they're not true to the cause!"_

"_Yeah, but I dunno man…we could get arrested for this."_

"_Arrested? For stopping an abomination like this? You trying to tell me you don't think this was worth it? We got one of the Tracys! The most dangerous and criminal of them all! Are you in with the cause, or not?"_

"_I am! I hate these uppity bastards as much as you, but it _my_ car they were chasing and identifying!"_

"_You'll be a hero to the cause – they'll never arrest you."_

Scott tried to talk – his throat was dry and raw, and when he tried to get the words out they came out in a strangled croak. He swallowed painfully, and tried again. There were so many things he wanted to say, but in his concussed and over exerted mind he could barely find the coherent words to ask "Who…are you?"

"What?"

"Who…who are you?" Scott's voice was raw.

For his brave effort he received a cruel strike to the chin with one booted foot. Past the agony in his jaw and the stars dancing in his vision, he heard the words, soaked in hate and contempt. "Shaddup ya filthy freak! You'll speak when you're told! You don't like it and we can dump your body on your rich daddy's doorstep so he can eat his own spawn, or whatever it is you stinkin' animals do! Right? You're in the real world now, you psycho, and we're gonna make sure good, decent people know all about you and you kind!"

Scott Maybe registered one word out of three of this, but he still managed to get the gist of it. He was hauled over the rough cement like a sack of flour, and then tossed, yes, tossed through a door. He had just enough time to register some rickety sounding wood before he was kicked hard, and sent tumbling in a bruising fall down a set of stairs. Shoulders and torso bruised and wrenched, he listened to the men cackle as they came down, stepping on him at the bottom and then dragging him further into the basement room he had fallen into. More rough rope and what felt like a bike chain were used to secure him to a set of cold pipes. Scott tensed and struggled as a rope was lashed around his neck as well, and heard one of the two thugs make some witty remark about putting dangerous animals on a short leash.

They left him them, one man roughly gripping his hair and shaking his head in a crude parody of a friendly gesture. The door above slammed shut, the bolts were locked.

Scott leaned a cheek against the cool of a pipe. Even if his head hadn't been banged around, he was overexerted mentally – he couldn't shift a feather right now.

Scott tried not to let the despair lurking in his gut overwhelm him, but here, in the dark, it was hard not to see the bleakness of his situation. Powerless and confined, he was at the mercy of a narrow minded and hateful group who wished him nothing but harm, and had free rein to inflict it.

Right now, all Scott could do was focus on staying conscious – it was a thousand times better to live with the stress of anticipation than to not know what they would do to him.

He prayed and prayed that his family was better off than he was.

_Please let them be safe._

----------------------------------------------------------

The street was quiet, peaceful, respectable. There were a few dog walkers around, but the road was deserted. The street lamps cast circles of light over the clean paving and the neat lawns of middle class suburbia, and the crickets chirped in a pleasing backdrop to a normal night.

Or almost normal. When the few pedestrians had cleared, leaving a clear, empty space, there was a heavy thumping sound. At a storm drain in the corner, the cement slab laid over the hole raised up slightly, and fell back. With a slight rattle it rose again, and Gordon Tracy emerged from the underground, dragging his bag behind him.

Clambering out hurriedly, he laboriously repositioned the slab back neatly over the storm drain entrance. He looked around carefully, making sure no one was watching and also getting a sense of his location.

Huh. He'd miscalculated slightly. He was one street over from where he should be. Following the familiar street signs, he went around the block and into another street that looked exactly the same as any other in the area.

Gordon was going to see his current girlfriend, Melissa. His on again, off again girlfriend. More off than on nowadays, actually. Mel was fun and an athlete and had a nice laugh and was a great kisser, but frankly she was as shallow as a puddle on flat concrete. Besides, they both knew that she dated psychics as a form of rebellion against her middle class respectable parents, who, while not hard core racists in any way, were sufficiently inured in propaganda and media to want to stay well away from the psychic issue. Mel always dated psychics – Gordon was the latest in a line. She'd stuck with him the longest, because Gordon was a lot of fun himself and because he was the son of a billionaire and she just loved watching her parents in a silent conflict whenever they met him – fear warring with ambition and status. She'd started making eyes at Brady, the low grade telepath in the same class as Gordon and captain of the basketball team, and Gordon didn't feel inclined to hold her back as she left.

It wouldn't have lasted anyway. People who met them tended to assume Gordon, happy-go-lucky prankster, was just as shallow as Mel. It was a dangerous assumption to make. Gordon thought and felt things as deeply as any academic or philosopher and he had several noble passions and causes which pursued with vigour and enthusiasm, he just never let anyone know. His family knew, but they had grown up with him so there was no escaping that.

But she might be able to help him now – she was still a friend of sorts. He made his way to her house, snuck silently into the unfenced yard and around the side, where the bedroom window was. He tensed slightly when he heard the sound of helicopters in the air and hurriedly ducked under an oak tree growing in the yard as they scythed overhead, spotlights weaving over the ground. They weren't pointed to this area yet, but Gordon willing to bet there'd be an army on the streets soon enough, searching.

Creeping over to the backyard pool edge, Gordon picked up a tennis ball that had been left on the lawn along with toys and other bits and pieces. Mel had two little sisters. Tossing the soft felt ball in his hands idly, he took aim at the closed window pane with the dim light coming out of it, and lobbed up there, striking the glass quietly dead in the centre.

He waited a moment, and a silhouette eventually appeared in the frame and lifted the window sash. He gave her a cheery wave she peered out, perched on one of the poolside deckchairs.

"Gordon?" Mel called, but quietly. "Is that you?"

He waved at her to come down.

She gave an exaggerated sigh, but obediently popped back inside, closing the window as she went. She emerged half a minute later from the back door, dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt, covered with a satin dressing gown.

She came out grinning. "I heard there was an attack in Washington," she greeted slyly. "Was it you?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. "No comment."

"Seriously Gordon, where were you today? You weren't at swim team practice yesterday, either," Mel complained. She sniffed the air disdainfully

"I got grounded on the weekend. Dad's got no sense of humour."

"Grounded? For what?"

"Attacking the President," Gordon replied, smirking.

"Oh ha, ha," Mel retorted sarcastically. She brushed her short blonde hair out of her face. "Brady invited me along to the All-School today," she shrugged. "You weren't there."

Gordon gave a similar shrug. "Well okay. But it doesn't say much for your taste – he's a Neanderthal."

Mel shrugged again. "He's a Neanderthal who's getting a Jag in the summer. You're dad owns his dad's company, and you still ride around in the family SUV. You can see the dilemma I'm in." She sniffed again, and made a grossed out face. "Geez, it's you! You're all covered in gunk! What, have you been rolling in a dirty fish tank or something?"

Gordon took a look at his slightly slimy, muddy, still dripping appearance. "Long story. Listen Mel, I think I might need your help with something."

"As long as it doesn't involve you touching me, ewww," she replied, disgusted.

"You date a lot of espers, right?" Gordon continued, unwilling to de sidetracked. He mention of his family had urged him onwards, aware that he had only a little time.

"Yeah, so?"

"Do you know anywhere I could go to lay low for a while? Somewhere a psychic wouldn't be noticed," Gordon had to ask, because before if he'd needed help, he'd only have to go as far as his family. He didn't know much about psychic groups or organisations, the Tracy family was pretty reclusive with that stuff.

Mel stared at him. "Don't tell you really did attack the President!" she exclaimed. "I thought you were joking!"

"I was joking, don't be stupid," Gordon replied, exasperated. "I haven't done anything, but one of those normal-supremist groups raided our house and now I need somewhere to lay low until I can get to my brothers," he edited the truth slightly.

"Oh," Mel perched on the other deckchair, and withdrew a pack of secret cigarettes from her gown pocket. Another rebellion, and yet another reason Gordon wasn't inclined to keep her. Kissing her lately had been like kissing an ashtray, and he felt he had a better role to fulfil in life than be a portable talking lighter. He lit one for her anyway, but refused the pack when offered.

Mel took a dainty drag. "What makes you think I know anything about that stuff?"

Gordon gave a one shoulder shrug. "You date psychics, and psychics tend to stick together, hang out. I figured you might have been dragged along to a few groups or something."

Mel blew out another puff of smoke. "Well," she said after a moment. "Most of those places are just little meeting halls right? They get together and talk, mostly – they don't have shelters or run charities or anything like that. They probably wouldn't help someone wanting to hide – they'd probably just tell you to go to the PRA or something."

"Oh," Gordon felt deflated.  
"But, you know, if you _really_ want to hide," Mel continued, unheeding. "There is one guy you might want to try. Do you remember Kite?"

"Was he a good kisser?"

"He did a lot more than kiss," Mel smiled smugly. "More than you ever did. You know, Kyle Endas? Kite?"

Gordon's face screwed up in recall. "Wasn't he that guy who got expelled last year for blowing up the chancellor's car?"

"Yep, that's him," Mel nodded, and took another mouthful of smoke. "We used to go out before he got expelled. He was a bit weird but he once took me down to this group he had going. It was full of psychics – some of them weren't even registered. They have a squat in a warehouse next to a dive bar on the docks. The _Sailors Knot_. He might help you."

"You're sending me to a criminal for help?" Gordon asked in disbelief.

"You want to lay low or not?" Mel retorted. "Kite was a strange guy, but he looked after a lot of people in the warehouse. He'll take you in if he thinks he can trust you," she raised an eyebrow at him. "So you might wanna change before you go."

Gordon pulled at his sticky clothes irritably. Okay, is wasn't an ideal solution but frankly the PRA were all over the streets, his cell phone was still being jammed and he needed somewhere to go. He couldn't walk to Tracy Corp, but the docks and the bar weren't as far away, and the PRA wouldn't be looking there.  
"Okay, thanks Mel," Gordon said finally. "I appreciate the tip."

Mel stubbed out the cigarette. "Yeah. You'd better not come around here anymore for a while though. Mommy and Daddy aren't very happy about espers, and they were so happy when I said that I broke up with you. Besides, I don't really want to see Kite again either – he was a bit a freak."

Gordon waved her off. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Nice to have your vote of confidence." He tried not to let his mild annoyance at her unfeeling dismissal of his emergency show. She hadn't even asked if his family was okay. Maybe that was for the best. He wasn't sure how he'd answer.

The window sash from above slid open again, and Gordon jumped and tensed.

Another girl about Mel's age bent out of the window, long dark hair falling all over the place. "Lissa? Are you done yet?"

Gordon's eyes narrowed when he heard that voice. "What's _she _doing here?"

"I'll be just a minute!" Mel called up to the other girl, and she went back inside. "She is my friend, why shouldn't she stay over?"

"Savannah Walton, the Wicked Witch of Walton?" Gordon asked, glaring at the at the window pane. "Since when?"

"Since she got me onto the dance committee," Mel replied calmly. "Look, I know she embarrassed your little brother a bit, but geez it was just a little kiss. It should have been the high point of his year!"

Gordon shot to his feet. "It was not just a little kiss! It was a little un-warned kiss! He was nearly catatonic for three weeks after what she did!"

:"Shhh, stop yelling! They don't know you're out here!" Mel hissed angrily. "Besides, how was she supposed to know?"

"She knew," Gordon replied coldly. "She did it for the attention, the little…"

"Look, if all you're going to do is bad mouth my friends, you might as well get going," Mel stood up irritably. "I'll see you around."

"Yeah, whatever," Gordon stalked away, his angry march of protest somewhat spoiled by his squeaking sneakers. He jogged out of the yard and back onto the street, carefully sighting ahead to see if anyone was on the road. It was still empty. He still had time.

Gordon did what his subconscious always directed him to do, and turned towards the smell of the sea.

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Breathing hard, Alan gave the rust encrusted bars another shake. They squealed loudly in his ears as they moved. Grimacing at the noise, he yanked them again, feeling them loosen a little more. The rough metal dug into his hands as he rattled them hard, and then his head started hurting after the bars suddenly came loose and Alan was thrown back against the ceiling of the tunnel.

"Ow," he muttered to himself irritably, rubbing his sore head with one hand and groping for his pack with the other. If his brothers had been here to see that, they would have been rolling around on the floor laughing.

The silver lining seemed foil thin. Alan wouldn't mind, as long as they were nearby.

Get a grip, you spineless idiot, Alan scolded himself angrily. He wasn't a little kid who needed to hang on to his brothers hands every step of the way. He might be scared and alone, but he wasn't going to let them down now.

Crawling out through the newly unblocked way, he finally felt the fresh air on his face and the stars in the sky. It was funny how relieving the sky looked – it felt weird to crawling around under the ground for so long. He got to the open mouth of the pipe, and cautiously stuck his head out. The flat bedded valley of the large storm drain scooped out in front of him, and stretched out, smooth walled, either side. Feeling with one outstretched arm, Alan found the rung of the promised ladder bolted to the side of the drain. With a bit of contortion, he managed to get his feet out of the mouth, and was forced to twist awkwardly to get onto it.

After slinging the pack on his back, Alan clung to the metals rungs and considered his options. He could go up, climb over the mesh fence and go along the streets until he came to the station, or down, along the bottom of the drain, straight through the storage yards until he found the freight tracks and doubled back. Alan was pretty sure the streets were the quicker way, but before got more than two rungs up his luck failed.

With a startling roar, a search helicopter suddenly swung overhead, the sound bouncing choppily off the symmetrical walls of the hollow drain. A spotlight beamed a circle of light over the streets around the drain, the helicopter dipping so close to the ground that the downdraft ruffled the weedy tufts of grass growing at the fence line.

Heart rate shooting upwards, Alan scurried downwards, ending up sliding down the slope the last few feet to the bottom of the drain. It was dry this time of year, except for the fetid pools dotted in crevices and dips. The light flashed across them as it swung this way and that, and as it moved back and forth across the drain area Alan zigzagged, trying desperately to stay out of its eye. It brushed against his arm, and the white light nearly had a weight to it.

Alan was a top member of the sprint team at Garstone, however. He found his stride and sank into it, blazing down the drain line as the light searched overhead, looking for the slight hint of movement that the watchers were certain they'd seen. Ahead of him, the Rexington Bridge arced over the walls of the drain, promising shelter and safety. Sneakers splashed through the residue in the drain, Alan cursed as his feet started to slide wildly on the algae growing in the stagnant puddles. Righting himself with arms akimbo, Alan dodged the swinging light and tried to regain his lost ground. Feeling the burning light right at his back, he watched in panic as his own desperately moving shadow became clearer and clearer ahead of him.

With one last surge of speed, Alan dove under the cover of Rexington Bridge, skidding to a halt and clutching at on of the support pillars to break his momentum. The light searched back and forth, swinging over the bridge, around it, across the surrounding fence line. They hadn't seen him. They couldn't have – otherwise they'd be angling the chopper down to get a better look under the bridge.

Breathing hard, Alan waited tensely in the shadows, hunched up as much as he could among the pillars. After a few heart stopping minutes the helicopter gave up the search, and moved off to survey another area. Alan tentatively left the shelter of the bridge, and watched the machine pull away.

He was still trying to catch his breath. He's never run a race like that in his life. He couldn't just stand around, not even to completely compose himself. If they already had search choppers out, who knows what kind of presence they had out on the streets looking for him. Looking for them.

Well, he was already going in the right direction for the industrial district and the freight line. Alan set off along the drain, watching every shadow, turning at every sound. Every step of the way, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He was aware how few places there were to hide out here, but it helped avoid cruisers and vans on the streets.

He left the street lights and the cars behind, but the dark and the silence of the warehouse district didn't reassure him. If anything, it robbed him of what little comfort he took in the lights and the noises, the presence of people. He was too scared to even use the torch he still carried, lest it attract the eye of a night watchman at the container yards.

Eventually, he risked climbing out of the drain, and was forced to strip out of his shirt to use as a protective cover in order to get over the razor wired fence. Snagging it as he got over, he wasted precious minutes freeing it and tugged it back on as he moved away through the container yard. The ridged metal boxes sat still and silent, oblong shadows against the dark, and Alan tried to make no noise, aware of each of his painfully loud seeming footsteps.

It was the worst hike he had ever taken, full of fears and jumps, even the luck of finding a hole in the fence at the front of the container yard to squeeze through did nothing to alleviate the horrible, heavy feeling in his chest.

He was alone. He had never been alone before, not really, not in any way that really counted. An old but hitherto unnoticed phobia rose up to take Alan by the throat. He didn't like being alone. An empath without people to reach out for, to feel, to connect with, was like a tropical fish being dumped in ice water. The whole word was cold, and hard, and heavy.

Keep going, keep going, Alan had a mantra. Keep going, stay ahead. Dad's coming.

He found the tracks, and terror drove him into a run, back towards the light and the noise, and people.

It took him about half an hour to reach the brightly lit station. It was still busy, even in the early night, people bustling around the entrance with luggage and carry bags, coming in and out of the revolving doors.

And something else. A dread certainty rose in Alan as he jogged toward the entrance, a feeling of inevitability and danger at the same time. Rolling up from the surrounding streets, black vans and sleek cars appeared. Alan didn't have to read the people inside to know who they were.

Pushing himself for one last sprint, Alan dashed for the station, darting inside as the PRA agents began making their presence known outside, checking faces and ID's.

Orientating himself in the brightly lit old fashioned hall, Alan dodged around the milling groups and around queues, Alan found himself at long counter lined with timetables and pamphlets in between an information booth and a row of pay lockers. The hackles on his neck rose as he unslung his pack and placed it on the table. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the revolving doors swinging around, and people were filing in. They had dark clothes and caps and long jackets even on a warm night. They came in one at a time, and spread out surreptitiously through the station.

Keeping his back turned and feeling exposed and conspicuous in his wrinkled and torn clothing, he dug the money out of the detritus of his pack. He counted it – not a lot there, but enough for a ticket. Re-slinging his pack, stuffing the notes into his pocket, Alan slunk carefully behind a revolving stand and along the long wooden benches in front of the ticket offices. Over the glass fronted cubicles and queues, a red light billboard sign flashed with departure times and numbers. Tickets for certain places had certain queue numbers.

There! One for New York, and it was leaving, Alan checked his watch, in two minutes. It was so close to departure time that there was no queue at the ticket window. Alan wanted to wait for Gordon – he'd feel far better all round if he wasn't going alone. The idea made his steps falter slightly, and he hovered indecisively at the end of a row, crouched down and out of sight.

Don't be stupid Alan Tracy, said a voice in his head that sounded almost Gordon-like. Even if Gordon was able to get here, and Alan severely doubted he could now, the PRA were already here. The next train to New York was over six hours away. If he waited now he'd be caught.

You knew you'd be alone, he said silently to himself. Ever since Dad left the house, you knew you'd end up on your own.

Moving in a high speed hunching run, Alan shot to the ticket window for the New York line, feeling the agents behind him move deeper into the station. He could feel them, their emotion far more controlled and tense than anyone else in the crowd, who were merely frustrated or tired or excited. Alan shook himself before he got lost in the sensations – he couldn't let that happen in the middle of a station.

"One to New York, please," he gasped to the ticket lady, a large woman who was bored and tired.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "It's leaving in two minutes, honey," she pointed out wearily. "You might not make it to the lower platforms."

Alan thrust the money at her. "Please? I'm a fast runner, I'll take my chances."

The woman shrugged, saying it was Alan's money to waste. He could feel the suspicion forming in her mind, an emotion almost maternal shot through him. A runaway? That's what she believed, and he could feel her hesitate. She didn't believe in helping a child walk into danger.

Along the row he could see an agent was bending at window at the end of the row, talking to a supervisor.

Concentrating past his shaky barriers, Alan gently turned down the maternal worry dial. _He going to see his family. I'm going to see my family_. It was easier to instil the emotional impression on her heart because it was, in an odd way, the truth.

She printed off the ticket. "There you go, honey. You'd better run."

Alan flashed a trademark Tracy smile. "You're the best." His happiness flashed through her own heart. Suddenly life wasn't so bad, the night not so long. Alan whirled away and with flying feet headed for the platforms.

As he went down the steps to the lower levels, the hairs on his neck rose again. He didn't look back, and that was what saved him. He could feel the agents in the station proper suddenly become interested in the small running figure diving down the wide stairs. He felt them following.

When he got onto the lower levels, it was chaos. People were all over the place, milling about along the wide, long hall shot through with barriers along the walls, leading to the tracks and the platforms. People were all holding tickets and dragging luggage, trying to find the right entrance. There was a mirror set of stairs coming down at the other end of the platform centre.

They were coming down the other side! Agents were moving down the other stairs, placing themselves at the platform entrances next to the ticket barriers. Everyone who entered the platforms was in a position to be checked and carded.

Steps sounded behind him – more agents were coming down his own stairs, trapping him in a pincer. Alan rushed into the messy crowd, a "Hey, You!" at his back.

He pushed and shoved and squeezed through the group, able to use his small size to stay ahead to the bigger, blockier agents. But even as he reached the middle, he knew there was nowhere to go. He was just moving right into the reach of the agents at the other end. His train, starting its engines on its tracks, was being guarded by an agent Alan would never be able to get past. Stuck in the middle of the crowd, trapped and cornered, Alan felt the pressure of a thousand frustrations, anxieties and angers around him swell up to devour him, melding with his own.

Alan stopped, and took a shuddering breath. It would work, but he couldn't control it once it started.

"Please don't let anyone fall onto the tracks," Alan begged in a whisper. He didn't want to really hurt anyone. He closed his eyes and raised his hands and opened up, all his fear and stress blasted into the world.

It was hard to find a way in with this many people, but there were weak links everywhere in the mind if you knew where to look. Next to him, a tall, mournful looking man started twitching and moving restlessly.

"What's wrong?" his wife asked, suddenly sounding worried.

On the other side a mother urged her children urgently, he face tense and stressed. A teenage girl started to cry as she ran for the platforms. And elderly man past her started breathing hard, leaning against the wall. Like a ripple on the water, the crowd started to twitch and jerk, people moving hastily and fervently. Their movements were quick and indecisive, they began to pace and move, unable to just sit still, unable to hold on to a calm thought. They were becoming edgy, stressed, _panicked_.

Everyone in the world had a little empathy in them – everyone picked up little signals from the atmosphere, emotional cues from the people around them. The more people that felt the higher the emotions circled upward, growing and distilling, so you had the phenomenon of perfectly honest, quiet people screaming, crying, even looting when lost in the emotional flood of a mob.

People shoved into one another, pushing and yelling, and the loose crowd was now a mass of aimless movement that the agents were being forced to wade rather than walk through. Tense and angry themselves, they kept their hands on their guns.

Someone noticed. There was an explosive scream from one of the frightened people as the weapon became the focus of their irrational fear. It was echoed by a dozen more people, as one persons panic infected everyone in the vicinity. The screaming pushed the fear and panic to unbearable levels, and people stampede left and right, knocking others over, vaulting over barriers, punching, kicking, beating at the walls, driven to near insanity by the thick phobia hanging in the air. The agents were knocked aside, swept up and crushed in the rush, if they weren't similarly affected themselves. One agent actually drew his weapon and fired wildly at the ceiling, trying to take control of the situation and his own hysteria at the same time. It had only made the situation worse.

In the middle of the disaster, Alan knelt, gasping, hands pressed to his head as if he as trying to block out an excruciating sound. Willing his blurry vision to focus, Alan mentally broke surface above the fear, using breathing techniques and thought problems learned in childhood to separate himself from the maelstrom around him. It was hard to find any kind of mental footing in the fatal flood, but he forced himself to move, staggering toward the barrier which people were trying to get through like a pack of rats trying to escape out a tiny hole, pouring over the barrier, even climbing over other people in their desperation to escape.

Alan flung himself desperately into crush, using his small, lithe body to get up over the mountain of escapees, and was pushed by sheer momentum over the barrier wall, landing hard on the other side. Having a fatal slip as he was shoved from the back, Alan was slammed into the ground and relentlessly pummelled by panicking feet as more people came over the wall.

Groaning as a steel cap caught him in the ribs and a pair of pumps spun him around on the floor, it took him two tries to force himself to stand without being shoved back down again. He got upright, stumbled as he was pushed from behind but stayed standing, managing the few vital steps it took to get into the current of people that would mean he could move without getting crushed as long as he kept up.

There, at the end of the long platform, the New York train was giving its final boarding call, a station conductor standing at the last door, blowing his whistle, signalling the train to move. The outer edges of the crowd were milling on the platform, still pushing and shoving, still hysterical, and Alan, even if he could focus, couldn't stop the momentum of the panic now – it was like a dam burst, all you could do it get out of the way.

Some of the agents had gotten through the barrier by a dint of weapons flashing and shouting. The crowd bloomed away from them like feathers in the wind, and they were able to move quicker through the thinner crowds on the platform, panicking or not. They were gaining on him.

Alan hit his stride again, shooting down the paving like an Olympic sprinter, chasing the train which was beginning to inch on its way, the doors yet to close.

Alan put everything he had into every pace, pushing desperately the last few strides, drawing level with the back end of the train aiming for the still open door. Two more paces and he leapt, stretching out as far as he could, at his back fingers just bushing the back of his neck as a hand snatched as his backpack. For one breathless moment, he was suspended in midair, inches from freedom and captivity both.

But suddenly, his feet just toed inside the train door, and the train's momentum yanked the restraining hand off of him, not before nearly pulling him from the train. Alan just managed to catch one of the rails bordering the door, keeping him on the train and getting him away. Falling forward, he hit the vinyl of the entrance floor, the door to the main cabin closed so there was no one to see.

Struggling to breathe, Alan curled up, his vision greying out and blurring, his heart humming in his chest. The blowback from what he had done at the station was hitting him hard – you couldn't do that kind of thing without it inevitably bouncing back. After all, Alan was far more open to the emotional signals of people, and whatever he made others feel he must feel first, so he could send out to them. It had been easy at the station. Whatever bravado and creative planning that veneered him, underneath the fear welled sickeningly. It may not control him, but it was ever present force nevertheless. What those people had felt was merely a reflection of his own inner heart, and what he was now feeling was the panic of that fear distilled by hundreds of others.

_Make it stop_, Alan thought incoherently as he huddled on the linoleum, alone, shaking, and head beginning to split. _Please Dad, Scott, anyone, make it stop…_

------------------------------------------------

After processing the still unconscious prisoner, Mr Fenill supervised his restraint in the lock box. Looking through the viewing window at the doctor giving the young man a check over, he snapped open his cell phone and rang the team leader heading towards Tracy Corp.

"_What do you want, Fenill_?" he asked once Fenill had him on the line.

"They want a report on the progress," Mr Fenill replied curtly. It was a small disobedience, but he had to keep his hand in.

"_It's going smoothly. We've set up a perimeter and jammed transmissions, and we've got taps on all communications, electronic and otherwise. We've instituted a no fly zone over the building and we're calling in more helicopters. Vibration sensors indicated a private train line was in use, but it was before we got here. Once we've downloaded the footage from the security systems we'll know who was on it. We're working on that now. So far, the only call registered for the evening was to one Rodolphus Erbehart, an attorney. But our warrant's airtight; no lawyer will be able to argue out of it. There are a lot of people still in there, and there's a lot of media around, but he's boxed in. We'll have all the paperwork and footage we need to put him down for a very long time. We're about to execute._"

"Fine. Do so," Mr Fenill replied, and ended the call there. It sounded like everything was going to plan, but the media's presence stuck in Mr Fenill's cunning mind. It was an unusually fast presence, even for them. Something was wrong here. From what Mr Fenill had read and seen from Jefferson Tracy, he was not a man easily cornered.

Whether he liked it or not, he was trapped now. The PRA had a card even Jeff Tracy couldn't trump or bluff.

Mr Fenill looked back in the room, where the Psy-blocker helmet was being fitted over Virgil Tracy's head. His eyes were still closed, a slight twitching of the eyelids suggested he was dreaming. Mr Fenill wondered, looking at him strapped in there, what psychics dreamed of. It was a thought that never occurred to him before.

Virgil continued dreaming, still sedated, as the doctor finished, the machines were fixed and the door shut and locked with a harsh klaxon sound, leaving him glowing under the fluro lights, alone and imprisoned.

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End - Part VII


	8. Moving Into Check

Disclaimer: This is a non profit fanfiction about characters and I don't own.

Warnings: Adult themes, violence, the supernatural.

Authors Notes: I'm so sorry! I know how long it has been since my last update, but I've just had weeks of disasters – floods, extra lessons and worse, family reunions (grin). And I've suffered terrible writers block – it was just so hard to get the words out on this chapter. It didn't turn out exactly how I would have liked, but I felt it best to get it out there because you've all been waiting so patiently.

For those of you who have been waiting for word on Scott and Virgil – uh, I'm going to disappoint you here. Sorry! But I'm trying to write this with a sense of real time, and not much happens to Scott or Virgil on the first night. But no fear, there will be heaps of Scott and Virgil stuff next chapter along.

Again, sorry for the delay. And thanks so much to my reviewers.

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Part VIII – Moving Into Check

_In which there is – Press Relations – Moving into Check – Lady Penelope's Politics – Bad News – An Interrogation – Clear Vision – Andrea Smith-Valentin – the PRA Catches Up – The Long Step – the Power of Numbers – Manic Mischief - the Sailor's Knot – Kite – Sneaking Up – On the Stage – What Happened – Jeff's Faith_

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Jeff didn't smile at the cameras; he was too tense and too weary. Randall had told him to get in here in a hurry, and his guys would slow down the PRA storming the building just long enough for him to get in front of the cameras and make an announcement.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said grimly. "I appreciate you coming out here so late and on such short notice, but I feel this announcement cannot be made to wait. I am here only to make a brief statement, as I have a few other crises to deal with tonight." Jeff forced himself not to blink as flashes went off again in his face. He forced his voice to be clear. "I wish to announce a new device – a profound and vital device that Tracy Corp has just bought the rights to. It has no actual name yet, but its application is simple to define. This device can switch off a psychics power, leaving them able to function fully with it on. As you may well remember," he raised his voice over the shocked, rising murmur from the crowd. "A Psy-Blocker has the regrettable side effect on physical incapacitation, and has been banned in many countries as a cruel and overly punitive device, as it has often has been called by many in this country as well. This device, yet unnamed, is neither painful nor does it incapacitate the wearer. As you can imagine, this device will have many useful applications helping powerful psychics control their gifts and healing those who have been damaged by them. I hope we can find ways to reconcile the gifted and the ordinary citizens with one another with the help of this device, if we can."

Questions clamoured on all sides in a babbling din. "Is Tracy Corp planning to market this commercially?" "What's the PRA stance on this?" "Who designed it?" "Was it developed for your sons?" "Is this a result of the attacks in Washington?"

More and more piled into the air. Before control could be established, the doors burst open and the PRA burst in, all righteous fury.

"Jeff Tracy, I have a warrant for your arrest for suspicion of subversive activity, trespassing, assault on PRA agents and illegal use of power. Turn off those cameras!"

Which is exactly the wrong thing to say to the press. They kept the lenses trained on both the PRA and Jeff as to burly agents grabbed Jeff Tracy and forced him, unresisting, against a wall.

The PRA agent, who had the name Forlan stencilled across the back of his PRA jacket, seemed to have belatedly realised that a certain amount of Public Relations was going to be required here. He moved up to the podium confidently enough.

"What do these charges entail exactly?" someone called from the gallery.

"Mr Tracy is charged with breaking into Palton Compound and assaulting the CEO of the company, Mr Bale Palton, as well as aiding and abetting a fugitive to escape PRA control – a Dr Hackenbacker. We also suspect his involvement in the Washington attacks earlier this week."

"Is there any proof of his involvement?" "Is this new psychic device involved in some way?"

"The device is being put under a governmental control order as we speak. And leads are being followed in the Washington attack, and we believe Jeff Tracy can assist in the enquiries. Now, there will be a full briefing from the PRA press room in an hour so if you need more information..."

"Unhand the gentleman, Agent Forlan, you have lost your right to detain him," called a precise voice from the doorway. Mr Erbehart had arrived.

"We have an arrest warrant for Mr Tracy and it has been properly signed and approved," Agent Forlan craned his neck to try to get a look at the little lawyer. The press swung back and forth between the door and the podium, looking like all their Christmases had come at once.

"I have here a Writ of Stay of Arrest from the Miles-Keye Commission, legally signed by three of the judges. They were most displeased with the PRA's actions this evening with regard to Jeff Tracy's sons, who were attacked in their home by group whom witnesses have said identified themselves as the PRA. They are also looking into your close dealings with said Bale Palton, as there have been questions raised about the ethics of your agency's relationship with his company. They have decided that your overuse of authority and your questionable relationship with corporate interests and the suspected illegal persecution of the scientist who invented this new device have merited a full audit of your agency. Mr Tracy cannot be arrested until the investigation into your actions is complete."

Questions flew thick and fast from the press, flashes popped like machine guns, already some reporters were on their phones, relaying these incredible events to their editors and stations. Flustered PRA agents tried to control the sudden flow of information, but they had chosen to walk in front of the cameras and it was far too late now.

Mr Erbehart approached the podium and ceremonially handed the Stay of Arrest to Agent Farlon while the cameras flashed. Farlon looked stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. "We have clear evidence of his illegal trespass on Palton's property and his attack on PRA agents coming to arrest him when Palton's security force detained him. We have tapes of his entrance into the building and witnesses saying they saw a Tracy Corp helicopter in the vicinity. He even left his car there! This Stay does not include charges where there is clear proof of guilt."

"It might not be as clear as you think," Mr Erbehart said slowly. His eyes flickered towards Jeff, and Jeff wondered what kind of message he was trying to send. "I see clear evidence that he came straight here from his home – the car in question is parked on the street outside."

"_What_?"

-----------------------------------------------------------

"I just don't know whether this is the right moment for it, Lady."

Lady Penelope sat perfectly at ease in the book lined office, bathed in the dusty light flowing in yellow streams from the frosted windows. She raised a smooth eyebrow, an expression of perfectly controlled surprise passing briefly across her face. "Mr Ralshire," she pointed out. "What would you suggest is a good time? I realise the implications for a man in your position, but this is a matter that cannot be shamelessly pushed aside and forgotten."

Ralshire sighed, and ran a hand through his silver hair. "I agreed to see you, Lady Penelope, because of the great regard and respect I had for your late father, and in recognition of your relentless campaigning on my behalf for a chair in the Cabinet. But what your asking is," the dignified, portly elderly gentlemen threw up his hands, more a labourer's than a politician's. "Do you realise the general opinion being held by the public at this time? No, what you ask is quite impossible, Lady. Even for you. No vote will ever go towards allowing asylum for a psychic over the wishes of the government of the United States…"

Lady Penelope was unmoved. "The man is not a criminal trying to escape conviction. He is a scientist escaping persecution. Already Ministers across the isle and the continent are being contacted by members of the Science Institute, drumming up support from Dr Hackenbacker's freedom. You are the Minister for Immigration, sir. If you drag your feet on this, I cannot see how the public's outlook on your august self will be any way improved than if you took a gamble."

Ralshire sighed wretchedly. "I do wish you wouldn't put me in such a position, Lady. I would think our long standing relationship would eliminate the dangers of such a manipulation."

"My dear Mr Ralshire," Lady Pennelope smiled charmingly. "Events do occur in this country without my say so, I should think. This issue will be bought to its head regardless of what you or I want – I am not here to manipulate you, I am giving you a fair warning call. Forewarned is forearmed."

Mr Ralshire sat back, steepling his hands from where they rested on the leather armrests. "By Jove, but you're a tough argument Lady Penelope," he said finally. "Fine, I concede the point – I will spin the wheels and get the vote into the Parliament. But you must understand that that will be the extent of my power to act. I cannot force them to vote the way you want."

"All I ask is that you act with same honesty and forthrightness as you have always acted, Mr Ralshire, it is a quality my father always respected in you." Lady Penelope rose to her feet, and Ralshire mirrored the move with chivalry.

Even though she was triumphant as she left the MP's office, Lady Penelope had a bad taste in her mouth. Honestly, the state of her beloved homeland! Twenty years ago, when the psychic freedom revolution was reaching its fever pitch in the British Isles, this kind of thing would have been a spotlight topic – it would be in the papers, the pictures and the Parliament, it would be in the public eye. The Dr Sterling Keye Guild of Parapsychology would have been up in arms if a whiff of this sort of conspiracy to control psychics came to them, they would have them picking up phones and getting on the servers, drumming up support and whipping up public outrage.

And now? Her trip to the Guild had been a series of brush offs, hum-hars and 'we'll-get-right-on-its', the editor of the _Guardian_, who was a particular friend of hers, had agreed to run the story but was depressingly unenthusiastic about doing so, and now she pretty much had to threaten, cajole and lead her political agent by the hand to get him to take some action.

It hadn't always been this way. Lady Penelope was not a traditionalist in _any_ sense, she didn't believe the past was a golden age that should be continued forever; she'd spent enough time dealing with the dusty traditions of the aristocracy to feel any sentiment for it. But this was about her friends, almost her family, and all she could do was vainly wish that things were the way they once were.

Well, no time for silly wool gathering, she still had work to do. Jeff had promised to call in a few hours, and the posted hours had passed without any word from him. Jeff wasn't a man who broke his word without good reason.

She was helped deftly into the Rolls by Parker, who had waited patiently out front for her. She tapped the arm rest rhythmically, the only sign of her inner agitation. "We really must donate more to the Guild Fund and Seers Society, Parker," she said idly. "Pro-Gifted groups are becoming quite marginalised in the budget nowadays."

"That certainly 'elp the gifted chaps, milady, to be sure," Parker replied courteously. "There's no changing politicians in this country, 'owever. All those blighters 'ave ever done is swim with the prevailing tides, havn't they?"

Lady Penelope raised an eyebrow at the back of her loyal retainers greying head under its chauffeurs cap. People often assumed that Parker was cunning without being intellectual, but there were flashes of academia that at times he forgot to hide.

"I'm afraid I may 'ave some bad new for you, milady," Parker continued, oblivious.

"What is it Parker?"

"Me ol' mate Tripod called me up, 'e's been on a sabbatical in the Americas for a bit, and he told me there's a big to-do brewin'. He said he'd never seen so many black vans and police on the streets. T'rumour mill is sayin' their hunting for a group o' psychics. A family."

Lady Penelope tensed. "Parker put me through a call to…"

"I already anticipated that, milady," Parker cut in, and rare occurrence. "Your numbers seems to 'ave been blocked from th'Tracy's lines. I tried ev'ry number we had for them."

Lady Penelope pursed her lips. Right. That just about tore it. "Parker, head from home," she ordered crisply. "We're going to do a little shaking up."

"Yes, Milady."

---------------------------------------------

Virgil came aware by increments. First it was the noise, followed by a spurt of pain. Then there was a cold chill on his skin, almost refrigerated, followed by a spurt of pain. When he finally managed to pry his lids open, the harsh light and the spurt of pain that followed forced him the squeeze his eyes shut.

He waited for the white hot pain to recede to a manageable ache. It felt like someone had clamped a vice around his skull.

He tried opening his eyes again, and rode out the sharp pain this caused. He barely managed a squint. As his mind became more active, the Psy-Blocker started working more feverishly, shooting through his thought processes like bullets.

His coherency came in fits and starts, and it took him several minutes to come to a conclusion that would have happened at lightning speed without the damn helmet.

_Psy-Blocker…designed to…break up con…concentration…the PRA…_

Virgil's face tightened at another wave of white rolled through his brain, blanking out his thoughts. He twitched in his restraints, fingers dancing drunkenly on the hard metal table, muscles uncoordinated.

It took Virgil a few more minutes to remember what he had just realised. His short term memory banks were being constantly short circuited.

"_Virgil Grissom Tracy_."

The voice came from everywhere. Above, below, to the side. It bounced around Virgil's scattered mind until it hit a registration node.

"_We need you to answer our questions_."

It took Virgil a while to let this sink in too. Another blast of white blankness momentarily switched his thoughts off again.

"_Please answer if you can understand_."

Suddenly the pressure wasn't so overwhelming – still very much present, but at least now he could think two thoughts together. The must have turned it down. He regrouped sluggishly. PRA. Psy-Blocker. The invasion at the house. Straps. White mirrored room. Check, check, check.

"_Please answer if you understand._"

No, he didn't understand any of this. But that wasn't what they were asking.

"Yes." He croaked out the word through a half asleep throat that was raw and dry.

"_Are you a part of any subversive, rogue, terrorist or anarchist group_?"

What? What sort of question was that?

Another blast of white pressure.

Did he say that aloud? It was hard to tell.

"_You are trying to access the psychic centres of your brain. This is futile. The helmet prevents it. You cannot escape. You cannot lie. You cannot resist. You must answer the questions._"

He was? Well, that was news to him. He would later remember that people always said that the helmets sensors were clumsy at reading the difference between thoughts and psychic energy. Psychics had been saying it for years, but who listened to them?

The voice was metallic, filtered through a voice de-personafier. It had all the humanness and inflection of a pieced together recording for train timetables.

"_Are you a part of any subversive, rogue, terrorist or anarchist group_?"

Virgil got his brain cells in a row. "No."

"_Have you ever been_?"

"No."

"_Did participate in or plan the attack in Washington, on the President of the United States_?"

They were kidding, right? "No!"

Virgil hissed as the white hot pain shot through his head again, as the high calibre, powerful denial and disbelief activated the Psy-Blocker. His thoughts all shrivelled up and disappeared for a while, and he came back to the chilled room panting and twitching, trying instinctively to roll away from the pain.

"_Have you, Virgil Tracy, ever taken action or conspired to commit acts of treason or terrorism_?"

"No," Virgil got out through gritted teeth. The word was getting harder to get out, more slurred, and his thoughts were getting more confusing.

"_Where were you three days ago_?"

Where was he? His memories floated idly in his head, and tangled mess of stuff with no context. He was …he was….he pushed frustratedly though the lethargic smog filling his mind, and came across…

…a giant picture of his father. Many pictures. People. Models. Statues. Detritus of humanity.

"The m'se'm," Virgil mumbled. "Wassat t'museum."

With his brothers. Scotty, Johnny, Gordy and the Sprout. And dad was there too, kind of. He wished they were here. Coherent or not, he looked up at the harsh, blinding white lights, unable to move, and wished they were here.

Was he crying? What was wrong with him? His thoughts were off-kilter even when not affected by the torture device now wrapped around his head. Had they given him something?

"_With your brothers? And your father?_"

He had said that aloud? The gap between thought and speech now seemed indistinguishable. But he answered compulsively anyway. "Yes."

There were a few minutes, and a bang which made him jerk against his restraints. Suddenly there were people around him babbling away across him, not acknowledging him at all.

"Turn it down to minimum safe power to keep him still. Things might become clearer if he was given the opportunity to talk more freely."

"The machines indicated he was telling the truth."

"Machines can't interrogate people and they sure as hell can't read it when a psycho lies, we all know that. They can mess with gadgets. Let him try to lie to our faces – it's much harder to lie to a person than to fool a machine."

"Yessir."

None of this made any sense to Virgil. He knew they were speaking English, but the words were disjointed, and didn't seem to stick in his memory. The people were mere voices; he could only look straight up, into the white lights over his face. Movement was impossible, and his vision was blurred with the migraine he had.

Unable to move, unable to speak, and unable to think past the pain, Virgil retreated back in the safe darkness, helpless and alone.

----------------------------------------------------------

_There was a dream…_

_It was a nice dream. It had warmth, and light, and laughter. There were watery whispers in the ears and cool breezes across the trees. There were bright, sunny skies and the smell of salt and sand. It filled the world. It eased the soul. Alan had had this dream for as long as he could remember. When he was younger, he used to believe his third sight and sixth sense was allowing him to see Heaven, because it was the clearest, most brilliantly hued vision he'd ever had. Some psychics claimed they could, but no one ever knew for sure. Alan didn't think he was seeing Heaven anymore. He was never entirely sure what he was seeing. A place in his head, a retreat from the emotional sea in which he tread water in for ever and ever? Alan didn't know. But he was always sure that his family were there with him…_

But they weren't _here_. Alan came awake abruptly, gasping. They weren't here, they were nowhere close and he was _alone_ and…

Stop. _Stop_. Think. Alan looked around wildly, trying to get a grip on himself and his surroundings at the same time. He was…

…in the same cabin he'd crawled into two and a half hours before, literally crawled, struggling to breathe, into the first cabin he could find, thankfully empty. He wasn't even going to think about what the short journey had cost him.

His body was stiff and sore, his heart wouldn't calm down and he was soaking in adrenaline and sweat. He'd been lying on the floor, staring at nothing for the whole time. He painfully levered himself onto one of the chairs and slumped against the wall in the corner by the window.

That was _so_ stupid, is what his brothers would probably be saying now. That was dumb, Sprout, really dumb. Inducing mass panic, a powerful primal reaction, was difficult and dangerous and impossible to control. People had been _trampled_ back at the station.

Station…station…Alan's scattered thoughts began to find some focal point to anchor themselves around. He'd been at the station, and before that the drain, and before that the tunnel, and before that…

Alan sucked in a breath past the tightness in his chest. He wasn't going to lose it. He _wasn't_ going to cry. He wasn't two years old! But his emotional control had disintegrated from sheer overload, and his mind was open and raw.

He bent double, and focused on breathing for a few minutes. In. Hold. Exhale. Pull all the air, until you can feel it all the way up to the top of your lungs. The words of his control trainer came back to him, control classes taken year after year since kindergarten just so he could cope with the daily influx of emotions from the people around him. Detach yourself. You are an island, the emotions are the sea. You stand above them. Focus on each word of each thought. Fill your mind with emotionless thoughts. Count. Name everything your vicinity. Recite poetry, list what groceries you need; just think of something that doesn't get you emotionally involved.

Alan had his cars. Counted down type and model and year of certain lines, fastest to slowest, oldest to newest, cheapest to most expensive.

After a while, real sound and smells and colours began to filter back into his greyed out world. The names of models became easier to grasp, easier to remember. His memory became clearer. He hoped he hadn't hurt anyone at the station.

Around him, people were mostly relaxed, bored or half asleep. That made it easier for him to maintain his fragile control. His head was pounding. He leaned against the window, and tried to think about what he could do next. Sure, he was on the way to New York, but so what? He couldn't fly a plane and they didn't know anyone there, did they? There was no one he could go to for help once he got there.

Dad hadn't come for him yet. He gripped the pendant around his neck, just to be sure. Maybe he was delayed, or maybe the PRA had gone after him too…

Alan tried to concentrate past that terrible thought, but it kept gnawing at him. What if he had? What if all of them…

Alan took another shuddering breath. Get a grip. No, keep your grip. He'd fought too hard to lose it now. What else could he do?

_Call Lady Penelope_, the thought emerged from the fogged up rationality centre of his brain. Yeah, that was a plan. She knew where he was too, didn't she? And she was nearly as good as dad when it came to getting out of tough situations. Right, so, first find a phone. He didn't have his cellular on him, it was back at the house. He doubted whether they had a pay phone on the train. Maybe at the next station? He had enough left for an international call.

Now that he had something to do, Alan felt the harsh knot of tension in his stomach ease just slightly. He wasn't happy, he didn't feel safe, but at least he had something to work towards…

The door banged open and Alan jumped, badly startled, nearly hitting his head on the window pane. In the doorway stood a lady, huffing angrily and looking supremely put out by the universe. Behind her was a uniformed official, looking irritated and flustered. Their joint anger washed over the rawness in Alan's mind, like salt in an open wound. Stifling a groan, Alan began naming make and models as the woman, dressed in a rather cheap business suit, was shepherded into the cabin by the highly annoyed train official.

"You have no right to do this!" the woman snapped angrily. "I paid for a first-class ticket, I don't deserve to get shoved into economy!"

"You were bothering the other passengers, Ma'am," the irritable officer replied immovably. "We can do whatever we like if you don't behave."

"I was _conducting_ an _interview_. Do you understand that you walking troglodyte? I ask questions, other people give answers? I was in the middle of a story!"

"That's not the way Mr Black tells it, Ma'am."

"Horatio Black, the two-bit stunt man pretending to be a world class actor? What would he know? Besides, he's a celebrity, he's supposed be used to publicity! I have First Amendment rights, you know!"

"If you have a complaint, you can take it up with the station office when we reach the next stop. But if you come back up to the first class area, we'll lock you in the conductor's area and drop you at the next stop point. Your choice," the train officer shrugged, unmoved. Then he noticed Alan. "Sorry kid, didn't see you there. Will you be alright in here, or do you want to be moved?"

Alan wasn't sure if he could coordinate standing or walking right now. He felt too shaky and tired. Trying to focus past his splitting headache, he managed to gasp out "Nah, m'fine," before leaning back against the window, giving the pretence of sleep.

He heard the door slam shut, and the woman sat opposite, fairly simmering. "Well, this is just fine and dandy. Andrea Smith-Valentin gets thrown to the masses for doing her job. Ratchett is never going to let me live this down. What are _you_ looking at?"

She demanded this of Alan, who had opened his eyes slightly to watch this Andrea Smith-Valentin apparently talk, or rant, to herself.

She didn't wait for an answer, but had apparently decided he was a captive audience. "I mean really? Do you know who that poser was before he got in front of a camera? He was Hank Brown, a low grade fire jumper working theme park rides and cheesy old west towns. Suddenly he lands some two-word role in some plot-less shtick flick, and he's a god among men!"

_Please go away_, flashed across Alan's agonised mind.

"The gall, the _gall_ he turns and says to me that he doesn't talk to rag reporters, as if he didn't owe me, completely owe me for a years worth of free publicity for his non-existent acting – hah! – talents!"

Andrea Smith-Valentin tugged out a pack of cigarettes while raved about her slight, and lit one with the angry snap of a cheap Zippo knockoff, and took an infuriated drag. She blew out a puff, and appeared to look at Alan for the first time. "Mind if I smoke? What's the matter with you, anyway? You look like you've been run over or something."

She had powerful features – a hard nose, a tense forehead, thick, sharp eyebrows, full lips. Beneath the surface there was a boiling wrath, a constant never ending fountain of pure, unbridled fury at the injustice of the world. There was no softness, and no sympathy in her at all. Alan felt like throwing up.

"What's a kid like you doing all by yourself, anyway?" she asked, bored now that she had vented.

Alan shrugged sluggishly. "'M goin' to see m'family. New York," he said weakly.

"Being shuttled around, huh? Bad family life?" Her dark yes swept over him intensely, noting details. "You dress pretty well for a latch key kid."

Past his blinding headache and building nausea, Alan was too erratic to really register her sudden interest. If there was something in Andrea Smith-Valentin that was greater than her sense of unjust persecution, then it was her obsession with finding a good story.

"What's your name, anyway?"

Alan might be half out of it, but he was savvy enough to avoid that question. "Andrew," he lied with the first name that popped into his head.

Andrea raised one of her eyebrows, clearly not taken in. "Andrew. _Right_. You got a last name _Andrew_?"

Alan could have cursed if he was in the right state of mind. "It's none of your business," he mumbled defiantly.

"Really? You got something to hide?" Andrea was exultant. She'd been right, there was a story here. His clothes, and especially his shoes were good quality. Not just an expensive name brand made in a sweat shop to last two months, but actual quality, the kind that will last until you grow out of them, the kind you could only get with serious money. And his defensiveness? There was a clue right there.

"I got nothin' to say," Alan snapped back, wincing as the louder words rattled his headache.

"Yeah? Your head hurting? Headache, tics, shakes – seems to me like you'd have plenty to say, especially since people like you have to wear those tag things."

Alan tried not to let his dismay show on his face. Two hours in and he was already found out. Nice one!

Andrea laughed, the sound grating across Alan's ears. "I knew it! You're no good at lying kid, try some other profession. How about an exclusive? Come on, I'll be good to you if you're good to me."

The stab of her selfish drive caught Alan straight in the chest. Forcing his shaking body upright with all the dignity he could muster, he headed for the door. "You're crazy lady," he growled, trying to walk straight. "I'm not sticking around."

"This is a train. Where are you going to go?" Andrea was smug.

Alan turned and flashed her a cheeky smile. "First Class? I'll just go and tell the guy you've b-been bothering me," Alan's voice was beginning to crack with exhaustion. "I'm sure he'll un'erstand."

Even though he felt like mincemeat, Alan was still heartened by the outraged intake of breath as he slammed the door shut.

Alan's moment of triumph was not a long one. He wove up the corridor drunkenly, one hand on his head. A nagging sensation of having missed something or forgotten something struck him, but that could have just been the after effect of being in the presence of the abrasive Andrea Smith-Valentin.

He probably should get off the train, disappear. He couldn't risk this Andrea person calling the authorities – it was the kind of thing she'd do. He could cash in the ticket still in his pocket, and get on another train.

His escape plan had excellent timing. Overhead, the PA system pounded into his skull that they were approaching the next station, and would be stopping there for twenty minutes for maintenance and car re-coupling.

Okay, get off, call Lady P, change the ticket and wait. He focused on those four objectives, and it was easier to think past his overwhelmed empathy and splitting migraine.

It took him ten minutes to get of the train – he waited for everyone else to leave first before venturing out onto the platform himself. Trying to focus past an arc of light across his vision, he stumbled across to a bench next to some vending machines and sagged into it, clutching his head. He couldn't do this. He couldn't _do_ this. He wanted to go home….

Breathe, inhale, exhale. Alan tried to think of his brothers. What would they do in this situation?

Something weird was happening to him. His senses seemed to be all off kilter. His sense of temperature bounced up and down. When he thought of Scott, one side of his face went cold, and his arms started to ache. Thoughts off John made his headache worse, and had the taste of metal filling his mouth. Virgil caused his muscles to stiffen, and white light blot out his vision. Gordon smelt like cigarette smoke and sour air. Was he getting through to them, even at this distance? He wished he could actually feel them, actually find them. He could take on anything with them at his back.

Across from him, on the wall, there were pay-picture-phones. Call Lady Penelope, then you'll have some back up, at least.

He stumbled over and lifted a handset. Blinking his eyes, trying in vain to clear his vision, he struggled through his memory to find Lady P's number. Come on, Dad had made them all memorise it just in case, even though with international codes it was something approaching thirty digits long. He slowly and painfully began to dial, one number and a pause while he dredged up the next one and found it on the keypad. He winched the last few numbers up out of his muddied mind, and just as it began to connect, something went _ping_ across the back of his mind.

Slowly turning, he squinted at the crowd. Was it that Andrea woman? No, she felt much different. He tried to hone in on the sudden sense of danger, but his control was too shaky. But there was definitely something going _ping_…

Oh _no_. There they were. They weren't flashing badges or waving guns, but by now Alan knew the walk and the talk. The PRA were here to find him. Agents were scouring the station.

Alan hung up the phone. His scattered thoughts were suddenly moving like soldier ants –straight and fast. He whirled and sped back to the train he had abandoned, which was preparing to leave once again. He leapt aboard before they saw him, but it wouldn't matter if they had. He could feel them behind him now, and they were sending agents aboard every train on the station, checking each one.

A handful of Agents were getting aboard his train, starting with the front carriage. Another man, dressed in the same casual neatness as the rest of them, carrying a mobile phone, was scanning the outside; moving along the train and peering in the windows ready to report Alan's position if he was seen.

Alan ducked down as the man came past, and scurried into the corridor where he couldn't see in. Stupid, stupid! Had he actually believed they wouldn't have radioed ahead and planned to catch him? He should have thought of this!

Alan had darted aboard the train on one of the front carriages too. He peeked through a window panel that was on the connecting doors between the cars and saw ahead, under the dim train lights, PRA agents talking with the train workers in the dining car and conductor's area, and checking each cabin as they moved down the train.

There was a lurch as the train began to take off to continue its journey. Alan went in the other direction, and dove into the next carriage. Frantically, he looked around for somewhere to hide, but where was there? There were only the cabins, and they weren't designed to hide people. The bathrooms would be similarly checked, and they were the size of closets in any case. There was nowhere else.

Alan checked for any out of the way corner, crawl space or exit, and finding none, dove into the next carriage along as the agents moved further down. He had to do something, he would run out places to run to very quickly.

Alan put another car between him and the agents, trying to give himself time to think. Where else was there to go? He went to the end of the next car, and looked longingly out of the exit doors, now closed and locked. Outside, lit up with floodlights, was the multi-tracked train yard, long shadows trundling through the dark on silvery lines. Alan looked the other way, but this side's view was blocked.

Another train, a freight train, was passing the passenger train Alan was now on. The freight train was moving slowly, but it was gathering momentum. Eventually the two trains would, briefly, match speed and pace on the parallel tracks.

Alan took a breath. It was risky and dangerous, but the agents would soon have full run of the train and there was no time for anything better, if there was anything better at all.

He tried to wrench the side doors open for a moment, but they were electronic and locked up once the train was in motion. Giving up, he ran for the end car of the train.

This door still open – it was left unlocked so passengers and train workers could step outside for a smoke. The wind rushed by out here in the night, and the roar of both the trains' engines dimmed all other sounds.

The freight train pulled closer. Knowing that he needed to be close to the freight train to that the step across would be as short and safe as possible Alan clambered up over the railing wall on the side of the connection area. There, on the side of the train was a tiny platform, no more that a metal lip on the corner of the carriage, used by maintenance men to get better access to the coupling device. Alan gripped the railing hard, and gingerly stepped out onto it. It was barely big enough to house a foot, and he was literally balancing on the edges of his toes as he sidled out onto it.

Not more than two feet away the freight train, several hundred tonnes of solid, unstoppable metal was pulling up closer. If you fall now, Alan Tracy, came the voice in his head, they'll never even know. They won't even notice your body under the wheels. If you fall, they'll find you in _pieces_…

Breathing hard, he maintained his white knuckled grip on the railing, and gripped the corner seam of the train with his finger nails. He slowly pivoted, forced to stand on one foot as the tiny space couldn't accommodate two as he turned. One foot hanging, another holding his full weight just barely, the freight train pulled up and the parallel speed hit its equal point. Alan waited for a coupling point to come towards him, because he couldn't jump aboard the shipping containers – they nothing to jump onto to on the side.

Ahead of him the lights flashed up bright. The trains were beginning to part at the end on the train yard, past a circle of lights that marked its edge.

A dip in the silhouette told him that a space between the cars was pulling up. Time for a leap of faith, in the dark between two moving objects with the fatal space between certain death if he hit it.

_I could go back inside_, Alan thought to himself. Being captured wasn't too bad, was it? They weren't going to kill him, were they? It was stupid to risk this.

His chosen and only jump point pulled up to its optimal position.

Alan felt the agents close in. He felt the ground moving, the rumble of the bladed wheels across the merciless tracks.

He remembered Virgil's bloody faced as he literally threw himself in the PRA's way so that they could get out…

Alan jumped. For one heart stopping moment, he hung between the two trains, inches from the fall. In a flash, Alan had thought he'd missed the coupling, that he'd failed terminally.

Then his foot found the shifting metal join in the dark, and Alan's hand closed around the maintenance ladder on the side on the container. He gripped it one handed, flailing for a moment, before half wrapping himself around it, clinging like a limpet.

He watched the passenger train's lights trundle away in the dark, the agents still on board.

He slid down to curl up on the lip of one flat car, knees hugged to his chest, and one arm still firmly around the pole of the ladder.

He wanted to go home.

------------------------------------------

John felt almost light hearted when he made it through the security checkpoint at the telecommunications tower. It hadn't been hard. He flashed a random piece of paper and made them see a work order, and they were so used to having maintenance people around at night when phone traffic was low and they could do repairs without interrupting services too much that no one was especially suspicious. He got down into the internal working systems in the basement and got himself into a control centre terminal, out of the way of guards and other night workers.

He used the phone he had stolen from the PRA agent to access the network and watched as the codes scrolled across the diagnostic screen. This was telecommunications unrolled, all the complexity and codes involved in a mere phone call unmasked. Unlike most people, John was able to read it, understand it and use it.

They were all on a secure network, an untagged area code hidden under normal everyday phone lines. Usually this would make them invisible to most hackers and ordinary telephonists running the lines, but as long as you had one of the phone numbers used on the network, you could gain access to it.

The _whole_ network. They only used one – their whole communications system was on one network on one server. John could literally hear and see everything.

He spent the next hour re-wiring the system, listening in to the communications and learning their internal codes used on their system. Most of the communications were boring stuff, reports, supply ordering, information seeking. There was some more interesting stuff – he picked up communiqué from an unknown, out region area code about the transport and delivery of a rogue psychic. There were no names, but John wrote down the codes just in case it was one of his brothers, He'd have to look up the area code in the directory later.

He tried to access Tracy Corp, but as expected the systems had been locked down and isolated from the rest of the networks. If he tried to get in, even here, someone would notice and trace him. He wrote down the firewall codes anyway, just so he could find the system again.

He sat back among the wires and machines. It was kept chilly down here, but John's mind was on fire. He had access to the whole PRA network. From here, he could shut it down entirely…

But then they would just arrest everyone – it had happened before. They were paranoid about that kind of thing, and they would rather err on the side of incarceration rather than mercy.

But there was something else he could do. It was all numbers. The right number here, the taking the way of a number here, all their computer transmissions were in the form of codes, all their announcements arrived at the dispatchers desk via the computer screen. If you were in a position to input codes into the system, you could make them believe anything…

John spent another half an hour at the terminal. Codes for anonymous tips, codes for agents requesting assistance, codes for assault situations, codes for requests for liaisons….he sent them all, he scattered them across the map, be involved every PRA server in America in the mass misdirection. Checking out all these leads would take days, and hopefully give his brothers and father time to escape.

John chuckled to himself. This was _fun_. He organised an Agency head meeting in the backwaters of Wisconsin and sent requests for Presidential meetings to all the clerks and accountants, he put in prisoner transfer requests all across the states like he was playing a shell game.

He vaguely wondered if he should be staying in the system this long. But as the codes flashed and scrolled, he found himself unable to stop chuckling over the chaos the mere numbers were causing. He couldn't stop laughing, and the codes and orders just kept getting sillier.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realised that he wasn't thinking straight. His brain chemistry had taken a left turn into manic. He wasn't able to assess danger or make judgment calls.

He could make lots of other calls though. He was laughing hysterically over the order for two thousand doughnuts to be sent to the New York branch office when he realised that he wasn't alone. A technician had come down from the main control centre.

"What the hell are you doing? You're overloading the system! Who are you anyway?"

Mind suddenly crashing headfirst into paranoia, John began to panic. They were coming for him! He had to run!

He bolted towards the other end of the machinery section, ignoring the calls to stop. The buzz of an alarm and red lights flashing overhead made him jump and whirl erratically. The technician had tripped the fire alarm.

John headed into a maintenance corridor and up the stairs. He chuckled to himself shrilly as he realised that the whole building was about to be evacuated because of him. Wow, Gordon had nothing on him when he decided to cause mayhem!

Well, a fire alarm meant fire didn't it? John's erratic thoughts jumped onto another delusion. Shouldn't stay in a building when it's on fire. That's dangerous. John was supposed to be the responsible one, right?

He reached the end of the stairs, and got out into the main corridors where he was swept up into the current of evacuating people. Security guards were pushing and shoving against the flow, trying to find him.

You can't see me, John giggled hysterically. I'm invisible.

Without even realising it, he had gotten into their minds and was planting suggestions.

Swept outside by the crowd, John wandered around the courtyard of the building, nearly getting hit by a fire truck he didn't see coming, laughing until tears formed his eyes. He couldn't stop, even though he wanted to. There was a black edge around his vision.

He also didn't notice the panel van pulling up to the scene right next to him.

"There he is!"

"Is he breathing? What's wrong with him?"

"I think he's over-exerted. Quick, get him in before the cops notice!"

"Come on, son."

John was not even aware as he was pulled inside the van. The choking, breathless laughter had finally caught up with him, and he passed out as they drove away.

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Gordon was tired and hungry by the time he hit the _Sailors Knot_, and it was even more of a dive than Mel had indicated. It was a greasy, smelly, smoky den in some hidden spot next to the docks. The outside, the inside and all the bathrooms were covered in so much graffiti that it was almost like an extra layer of paint over the sickly yellows and greens. The inside was stale and smelled rotten and sour, old urine, vomit, layers of sweat and years of absorbed nicotine in the walls even overcame the oily smell of the docks. The music was played too loud, loud enough to rattle the collar bone, and the gloom was offset by the flickering neon signs advertising various cocktails and cigarette brands, and an erratically spinning disco ball over the unlikely square of dance floor, completely deserted. Past the square bar, at the back were a couple of pool tables under dusty fluro lights.

Gordon managed to communicate he wanted a Coke that he paid too much for, and went warily in among the tables and chairs. He could feel eyes on him from dark corners, and it was an eerie feeling.

Suddenly there were more flaws than solutions in his plan. This Kite guy might not even be here, and this place was clearly well over the wrong side of the tracks. This is where people can get killed over a five dollar bet or get dragged into a men's bathroom by two hundred pound pig with a pressing need and no concept of the word no. It might surprise people how street smart the son of a wealthy and successful business man could be, but Gordon was and he was more than bright enough to know even the street gangs in his area wouldn't venture in here.

He was in a better position than most teenagers to defend himself though. Anyone trying anything funny would find himself well out of his league with this Tracy. Fire was the great shared primal fear.

He went to the back of the place, to the pool tables, where he could see any one coming and he could easily get out the back way near the bathrooms. He searched the faces there, but they were mostly dock workers and drunks, and Kite should only be a couple of years older than him, so it wasn't any of them.

He racked up a few mismatched balls and resolved to give it a little time. He wasn't the kind of person to sit still and wait. If he couldn't find this Kite, then he would head for the bus depot or the train station, or maybe just for the highway where he could hitchhike if those places were covered. He had to keep moving.

He was halfway through his solitary game when he felt the insistent presence of a watcher. He cast his eyes surreptitiously across the bar area, but no one new had come in, and all the drinkers there seemed to be in there own worlds, completely oblivious to him.

The pounding beat from the jukebox changed to a slightly tamer jazzy number that was not so hard on the ears. Gordon went back around the table to line up another shot, and suddenly noticed the dark watching eyes coming from near the back exit door, close to the floor. Gordon stared.

She was all of nine years old. Short softly curled brown hair framed a tiny thin face and dark, tense eyes. She wore a bright floral dress that looked jarring against this gritty backdrop. She was even clutching a stuffed animal to her chest, a long limbed blue frog that was clearly well loved.

Gordon put down his cue and approached her, wondering what the hell a little kid was doing in this septic tank of a bar. He would never let Alan near this place, and come to think of it, Scott would never let _him_ near this place if he knew. Little kids shouldn't be anywhere near here.

He crouched down nearby, but was careful not to corner her. He noticed she still looked tense and watchful. He put on his most charming grin. "Hi. My name's Gordon. What's yours?"

The little girl didn't answer. Gordon wasn't deflected. "Are you here all by yourself? Are your folks around here somewhere?"

The girl continued to watch him darkly. Gordon sighed. He didn't usually strike out with girls, but then again he didn't usually deal with baby girls like this one, so what did he know? He tried to come up with a way to get her out of the bar and find out where her home was. She was too clean and well fed to be a street kid.

"Her parents are dead."

Gordon whirled, caught off guard. Not many people could sneak up on him. A young man had come up behind him, tall and heavily built but fit looking, dressed in leather and jeans. Something about his arrogant posture and way of moving got Gordon's attention.

"Kite?" he guessed.

"You're quick on the uptake," Kite nodded past his black stands of hair.

"I'm…"

"I know who you are," Kite waved his hand dismissively as he turned back to the tables and pick up Gordon's abandoned cue. He continued in a singsong voice which had a hard cynical edge to it. "Gordon Tracy, fourth son of Jeff Tracy, engineer entrepreneur and founder of Tracy Corp, who makes more a week than some neighbourhoods make in a decade. Sons, in order, Scott, Aerodynamics major at Yale, John, double major Harvard, Electronics and Communication Science, Virgil, senior year, likely to get a full scholarship in engineering, you or course, and Alan, champion sprinter, winning driver of the All Americas Solar Car marathon and he once blew up the chemistry lab," Kite smirked at Gordon. "And then there's you, who acts like the class clown but consistently gets full marks in the sciences and environmental studies. Not forgetting your achievements as the consistent swimming champion and rumoured to be the next Olympic golden boy, of course. Did I miss anything?"

"Yeah. I once ate a moth when I was four," Gordon replied sardonically. Something about the quiet, subtle sneer at his family that rubbed Gordon the wrong way. Kite seemed to be a naturally dangerous individual. Gordon was thinking maybe it was time to get out of here.

Kite chuckled. "So, rich boy, what brings you to this side of town?"

Gordon looked back at the little girl, who still sat silent and still against the wall. He looked back at Kite, who was carefully pocketing a red ball and appeared to pay Gordon no mind at all.

_He wants to see what you'll say_, came up in his head, sounding almost like John. Gordon had had more than enough, he wasn't going to play games with some underground revolutionary. "You tell me, since you know so much. You know her?" he pointed to the girl.

Kite's expression didn't change as he sighted down the cue, but Gordon got the impression that he was impressed if not slightly wrong-footed by Gordon's answer. "The PRA can be real bastards about picking rules for a game," he replied. "And yeah, I know her. She's my cousin, I take care of her."

"You bring her here?" Gordon let his disapproval show.

Kite shrugged of the criticism with a territorial glare. "She's safe with me. Where is your family?"

"They got there own lives," Gordon shrugged. He wasn't going to admit anything about his family to a stranger he hardly knew.

"So you haven't got a clue, then."

Gordon wasn't entirely surprised to see the sharpness of mind underneath the tough guy mask. "I wouldn't say that," Gordon replied, just to keep his hand in. He had a few ideas. "I just don't feel like sharing."

Kite grunted, sounding irritated. "You're going to have to do better than that if you seriously want me to help you."

"I don't want your help if I can't trust you," Gordon retorted. "A guy who brings a nine year old into a place like this isn't exactly inspiring me."

Kite actually looked up at Gordon for the first time, and he had the same dark intensity of his little cousin. "Fine. How badly do you need help, exactly? The PRA are all over the depots and taxi companies and stations by now, and the streets. You want to find your family? I can help you. I know people. People who can find other people. But I expect a little respect and faith from you in return. Once we let you in, you have to keep your lips zipped. You mess with us, and we'll put you down, understand? We don't need some spoiled brat wrecking everything we done 'cause his father can buy and sell countries. You betray us and I'll hunt you down personally. Your little matchstick tricks don't scare me. Right? So you decide."

Gordon glared back at him. He didn't feel at all at ease, but Kite was right, his options were limited. "I'm just supposed to trust you? I don't know you."

Kite shrugged. "Take it or leave it, rich boy."

Gordon sighed. "Okay, I'll give you a shot. Are we taking your car, or are we just going to stay here until the germs revolt?"

Kite lined up another shot. "It's not that simple. It's not entirely up to me. We gotta run it by the group first."

"The group?" But by the time he had formulated the question the hood had been slipped over his head and he was being dragged outside into the alleyway by several pairs of hands.

What was it with this place? It must be the music. People kept sneaking up on him.

------------------------------------------------------

Scott awoke to many voices. It was the usual din of an amiable crowd just killing time until the show started.

Wait…awoke. _Damn_, he had fallen asleep after all. He'd been too injured and exhausted to do otherwise.

The sleep had helped, in an odd kind of way. His head felt a little clearer, the headache wasn't nearly as overwhelming. Still agonising, but at least the voices made sense around him and he could loosely string his thoughts into something like coherency.

He struggled to open his eyes – one had swollen shut and he was blinded by light in the other one. When he accustomed to the light level his vision was still blurry and difficult. He at least managed to understand that he was chained to a chair, on a stage, and a whole crowd of gawkers were laid out in front of him.

He was being guarded by two burly men dressed…were those robes?

"Good morning, brothers and sisters, we are about to begin!"

The voice came from the back, and there was an awed hush as the entourage stepped forward into the light of the large meeting hall.

_Oh man_, Scott groaned mentally. He rolled his eyes back and let his head fall back. _You've _got_ to be kidding me_….

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Jeff ran his fingers over the familiar vinyl of the steering wheel of his car, half in wonderment, as PRA agents belligerently checked the cars inner serial numbers and registration.

"Convinced, gentlemen? The serial numbers prove it. This is Mr Tracy's car, and for it to be here, he must have driven it. Unless you can show us actual footage of Mr Tracy's trespass, then your charges don't seem to be able to stick. I suggest you investigate further into the matter, since Mr Palton seems reluctant to provide video evidence."

Palton couldn't provide it without incriminating himself in kidnapping and extortion. The PRA had truly painted themselves into a corner.

"We're not finished yet," Agent Forlon snapped, frustrated. "Mr Tracy is still under investigation by the PRA. The Stay can't stop us from that. You'd best be prepared to accommodate us for the long term, Mr Tracy."

"As long as you don't get in the way of my employees doing their work, Agent Forlon, we have a lot to do dealing with this new device. The Stay includes the governmental control order, since it was requested by the PRA. It has gotten very messy, hasn't it?"

Jeff got out of his car, which had been moved into one of the open spaces in the design lab.

He noticed Randall hovering at the doorway, and muttered an 'if you'll excuse me,' before joining him. They quickly outdistanced the following agents, especially after Mr Erbehart reminded them they had no right to interfere in Mr Tracy's private affairs.

"We've finished going through the tapes, sir," Randall reported. "We've got some useful information from them."

He led them into the surveillance chamber, one of three in the building, where row after row of screen were stacked up the walls and hemmed by control boards. Central to the views was one big, main screen, which had a paused image on it. His home, surrounded by people.

"We've narrowed it down to the last few critical minutes. I'll spare you the rerun, there's not much to see. We only ever see Scott, John and Virgil come out of the front. Virgil was definitely loaded into a van, Jeff."

That was a blow. Jeff had suspected it was coming, but it was still a prostrating blow. The PRA had Virgil. The fact that they wouldn't hurt him was no comfort at all. "And the others?" he asked hoarsely

"Scott was carried out, but he moved a bit so we're sure he's alive. He wasn't loaded into a van, he was taken out of the range of the camera and we lost track of him. They didn't look like PRA. Witnesses say that some of them were just civilians - out of control rioters. We're running face recognition databases as we speak."

Just when Jeff didn't think it could get any worse, it did. "You mean an anti-psychic group? They have Scott." His voice was flat.

"We don't know for sure, Jeff."

Yes, you do, Randall. You may not be able to prove it, but you know. You called me by my first name. Jeff said none of this out loud.

Jeff sat down one of the leather chairs at the board and put his head in his hands. Virgil was in trouble, but his eldest was in _danger_. Those people would hurt him, given half the chance. And Jeff was a prisoner here in the building. The PRA could and would detain him here, restrain him as much as possible. If it were up to him, he'd be out there with his forces and every agent, friend and contact he had scouring the streets for his boys. And if he was going after those people, he'd be going with a _shotgun_.

"There is some light in the tunnel, Mr Tracy," Randall was saying over head. There was a frozen moment before Jeff lifted his head. The look on his face would have made weaker men flinch.

"What?"

"Check this out," Randall switched the video on.

All Jeff could see was a crowd of moving people, a scene of chaos across his front door. "What am I looking for?"

"Just watch," Randall nodded. "You're looking for a leather jacket and a cap coming out of the front door and heading for the blue trench coat standing in the driveway there."

Mr Erbehart came closer to squint at the image. "Ah, yes. Is that the gentleman in question?" he pointed to a tall spare form appearing at the front door. "What is of interest here, Mr Randall?"

Randall grinned. "Look closer," he zoomed in on the figure as he approached man standing in the driveway, and paused it. "See someone you know?"

Both Mr Erbehart and Jeff leaned in close. The image was grainy, but the features distinct.

"Is that…" Mr Erbehart exclaimed.

"That's _John_!" Jeff nearly clicked his heels. It was blurry but it was there – John safe and sound, or just about.

"Yep. Walked bold as you please right out the door. He, uh, stole the SUV and took off in it."

Jeff found himself grinning from ear to ear despite himself. "That's my boy."

Mr Erbehart shook with laughter. "You Tracy's are always original, I will admit to that."

Jeff leaned back in his chair, and put a hand in his pocket. "No sign of Gordon or Alan?"

"Nope. But we got reason to believe they escaped out from under the house. A couple of PRA's were arrested for trespassing when they popped up out of storm drains in residential properties. They had to be down there for a reason."

Jeff found himself relaxing ever so slightly. His youngest had stayed ahead and he suspected Gordon had been exploring down there, so he knew where he was going. He would look after Alan.

It wasn't all good news but….Jeff pulled out a paperclip from his pocket, which been bent into the shape of a diamond. He had taken it from the car, where it had been dangling from the mirror like an ornament. He'd been right – John had left it for him.

He'd made each pendant different – one for each son. That way, if worst came to worse and it was left behind, he would at least know which of his sons had been taken. A rectangle for his fly-boy Scott, a solid shape for his second-in-command around the house. A diamond for John, like the stars he watched and the perfection he so often attained. A triangle for Virgil, a strong engineering shape for his musician. A teardrop for his water-baby Gordon, of course. That left an oval for his _baby_ baby Alan, representing his third eye and sleek speed.

They were all out there. They were still alive, he would know if it were otherwise. And his sons were not helpless. He knew. He'd made _sure._

There was still reason to hope, even now. Especially now. He had no higher faith than that.

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End Part VIII


	9. All Sides of the Coin

Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds are owned by their creators and various other studios, producers and other such people. The fiction is free, so it belongs to the fans.

Authors Notes: Yes, I know. I realise just how long it has been since an update, and I apologise humbly. I have spent the last few weeks without access to a modem, which was annoying. Server switch over, you know. All the usual delays. But more than that, I've battled writers block for the last month. In three weeks, I'd written a page and a half. It was terrible! So, this chapter a little shorter than the others - I shoved in all the salient plot points, and it's a little bit briefer than it probably should be, but the important thing is I got over the hump, so the next chapter could come quicker and in better detail.

Warm and heartfelt thanks to my reviewers, and humble and sheepish thanks for anyone whose actually waited this long (sorry, sorry, sorry).

Oh, and Tiamut pointed out a minor plot error with regards to Wisconsin's lack of backwaters. Unfortunately I don't live in America so my knowledge of American geography is limited to what Hollywood has shown me. And we all know how accurate they are, right? (grin) I apologise for any such mistakes in advance – pure ignorance, plain and simple.

Of course, this is set in 2067-ish. Maybe we could just say they moved the lakes of Minnesota to Wisconsin for some botched environmental planning (snicker).

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Part IX – All Sides of the Coin

_In which there is – Drop Off – Behind the Mask – Mail Call - All Sides of the Coin – the Second Courts – On the Wire – Interrogation and Accusations – the Prison Below – Thinking and Feeling – Taking Control – Sanctuary – Found? – Off the Train – Lost and Found – PRA Preternatural Problems – Matters of Elimination_

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The small engine plane landed neatly on the dirt field, curving to the left slightly at the as it hit the ground to avoid scything the wire fence. The buzz of the engines was loud in the flat fields of whispering wheat, but there was no one to hear it – there was no one for miles around out in these reclusive sticks.

Well, almost no one. Grandma Tracy strode up to the fallow field, an indomitable figure in an old farm dress and apron, and sensible rubber boots. She had blankets over her shoulder. She clambered over the fence instead of going round to the gate, demonstrating a wiry fitness that belied her age.

"It's good to see you, Mr Randall, even if you are a little late," Grandma spoke to the bulky figure climbing out of the cockpit.

"Pleasure to see you again, ma'am," Randall gave her a wary salute. There was something very penetrating about Mrs Tracy, and quality he had hitherto found only in boot camp sergeants. The only difference between them and the old woman is that whereas they did as part of their job, she did it because it was bed rock of her _personality_. He'd like to introduce her to some of his choicer sergeants one day, except that it might cause some sort of explosion.

"Well, come on, don't let's hang about," Grandma Tracy scolded gently. She moved around to the passenger door and yanked it open, revealing on scientist and his sleeping son. "Wrap him up in this now, it's nippy here at night," she instructed the slightly bemused scientist, handing over the woollen blanket.

She turned back to Randall, who hovered near the cockpit door. "I know you won't be sticking around, Mr Randall, so I don't suggest we waste time on pleasantries. You'd better be off. Protect my boys, Mr Randall. All of them."

A sudden spasm twitched at her mouth, and for one breath of an instant a frightened old woman looked out from Grandma Tracy's solid as rock persona. It was there and gone before you could really see it, but it was on par with seeing a great General break down and cry at the troops charged. Randall, never the most touchy feely of people, reached out to give her a brief, sincere bear hug. "I'll look out for them, Mrs Tracy. That's a promise."

"No need to get fresh, Mr Randall, you're not my type," Grandma replied one the hug was over. Randall grinned. That was the old battleaxe he knew.

She gave him a farewell wave, and turned back to the lanky scientist, who was out of the plane now and looking rather out of place in the rural setting.

"You come with me, sonny," Grandma lead the scientist to the gate. "We'll fix you up at the farm house."

She lead them back to her humble wood home, where two beds had been made up and food had been on the stove for the last hour.

That Randall. Always running late.

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Damien Halmen liked working the night shift. It was quiet and slow, a good time for driving the bulky mail truck without the stress of gridlock. The midnight hour, the simple repetition of hauling express parcels to their correct locations, signing off, hitting the road again was conductive to deep thought about all the meaningful things in his life – his beautiful wife and their four decades of happy marriage, his grown up children, his music boxes which he carefully and quietly built in his spare time. His was a humble, contented life, doing a job he loved.

He pulled into the delivery area of the next address, and shut off the engine of his van. Levering his spry frame out of the car was more difficult than it used to be, he sighed to himself, as he made his way around to the back.

He didn't bother looking around. In this neighbourhood, why bother? Security was so good here; there weren't any muggers or street gangs. That's what made the rest of the night so horrible.

Damien suddenly found himself plastered against the side of the van, cold metal rivets biting into his cheek as the group, outfitted in black, pounced on him from the shadows of the pillars and the hedges around the building, yelling orders screaming at Damien to freeze and keep his hands up. Terrified, the old man froze up. "Wh-what's goin' on here…here, you stay outta there!" He couldn't see anything except his the up close red of his company's logo, but he heard them wrench the creaky doors open.

"Shut up!" menaced a voice by his ear.

"It's here, we got it sir!"

Damien twisted in the hands holding him, freeing one eye to see what they were holding. He recognised the package – he didn't often get packages going straight to this address. Around him the PRA agents were scanning and prodding the package with bomb detection devices.

Damien took a deep breath, going very red in the face. "If y'all wanted it so bad, you could've waited for me to get it out for ya!"

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"Welcome, brothers and sisters, and what a fine morning greets us today! This is an historic day, and I can't tell you how impressed I am by your devotion, that you would show up so early and on such sort notice. Praise be to you all, and praise be to God!"

Scott focused on breathing as the chorus of 'Amens' washed over him. Surreptitiously, he tested his bonds. Hmmm, handcuffs, plastic ties and rope. And….were those wires? Oh perfect, they had him wired to something.

He was on a stage in a hall, large and vaulting, almost a warehouse if not for the plaster and panelling. There was cheap aluminium chairs rowed all the way back to the painted doors, flanked by trestle tables. A coffee and snack table. The whole place had an almost domestic air to it, a community feel. It felt like the kind of place where neighbourhood watches and block associations met. The people were dressed ordinary – everyday work clothes. Casual jeans on teenagers, bright colours on little kids, who played through aisles. If it wasn't for the bunch in black robes, it would have been normal.

_You're normal people sitting there chatting about your kids schools, the weekend church picnic, the state of the economy. There's a man tied and wired to a chair in front of you and, with any certainty, he's probably not the healthiest sight. You stand there and look at me. What are you really thinking?_

Scott's thoughts were becoming almost philosophical in his exhausted, injured state. The monologue disappeared in a wave of dizziness, and Scott refocused on the coffee machine. God, he needed coffee.

Scott was getting a tired, sinking feeling in the base of his stomach. Kidnapped by redneck idiots drunk on beer and hatred was bad enough, but at least they were irrational and biased enough to make mistakes. These people had built a rational, practical structure around their prejudice. They'd turned it into a system. They had _rules_.

They'd gotten the robes almost perfect. Long and black, simple lines with no hoods or hats – almost perfect replicas of the robes used by Second Courts over sixty years ago. It was like looking at a living museum.

The psychic gene was discovered and proven almost a century ago and more carriers than ever had their gifts become active, not regressive. Three generations later, and people still weren't sure why it had happened. Some scientists had theorised that the increased exposure to radiation over the last century were slowly mutating human genes. Others said that maybe the path of human evolution had finally hit some sort of biological upgrade. Others still said the human race was just sitting on a timer – something in our systems had finally decided it was time for these gifts to appear, like hectare size ant nests living and breeding quietly underground, until they erupted onto the surface and began eating everything in sight in accordance with some internal imperative. Who knew? People studied it, theorised about it, based years of research on it, but no one had ever gotten close to the truth of it.

People hadn't really known how to deal with it either, even then. There were a whole range of crimes only available to psychics and prisons hadn't been built to hold them. The judiciary, desperate to have the law catch up, had had to throw together a half-baked new authority focused entirely on the psychic problem. It hadn't lasted very long at all, and it wasn't supposed to. It had been a cobbled together authority meant to precursor the PRA while all the mess was sorted out.

And, contrary to the picture being parodied on the stage before Scott, it hadn't been a biased or unjust court. Most of the people on it, judges, lawyers, scientists and psychologists, had been basically decent and professional, and had been handling something completely new to them, and in some ways somewhat outside their realm of understanding. In the midst of all that, it was hard to render a fair judgement, and a lot of fresh new psychics had ended up institutionalised unfairly, but, to be fair, they had been instrumental in cracking down on some fresh new psychic deviants. Scott wasn't blinded by any light. He knew the psychics weren't paragons of virtue any more than regular folk were rife with hatreds.

There were some who thought the Second Court should have been continued – new people needed new laws. Harder laws. Different judgements. Stranger punishments. It's hard to lock up people who could literally live inside their own heads. These people clearly thought so.

No. The tall man with the long face, puffed out cheeks and unpleasant complexion believed it. The guys in the robes believed it. Even the thugs standing on either side of Scott might have believed, but that's not what they were being paid for. Everyone else was just along for the ride.

"You see this face up here on the stage before me," that man acknowledged Scott's presence for the first time. "The face of the enemy. This _man_ is the reason why good people such as you are called out in the early morn, the reason why we live in fear and danger. There are no words to describe the depth of his family's crimes, their use and abuse of unholy powers to their own ends. You all know of what I speak. You work hard, eke out a living, try to live decent while corrupt deceivers such as this use their unfair advantage to gain rich house and expensive cars, to take over businesses and force honest people out of earned employment – look at him! His father and his cronies have been using these _unnatural_ means to their advantage for years. He goes to the best schools and gets the best choices, where your kids get surplus equipment and hand-me-downs! Are you going to stand for this? Are you going to let this be?"

There had been a building, righteous murmur that ended in a triumphant 'No!' from the crowd. Scott knew a brainless frenzy when he saw one. He blanked his features and showed no sign that he even heard them yelling.

"I say we must take a stand! I realise it might seem unorthodox to have him here, to bring him under the control of you good citizens instead of the authorities. It may even make you uncomfortable, the idea that you must take control of the law for yourself."

"What if they do, Father Stewart?" asked one of aides in artificial impulsiveness.

"They must not be ashamed! Of course not! That is merely the decent, honest reaction to have. But also!" the robed man now labelled as Father Stewart shook a finger at the enraptured audience. "Also! You must know the _truth_! And the truth is terrible and bitter, ladies and gentlemen. The authorities have done us a great wrong! They are no longer able to protect normal, decent folk from freaks like this! They are snaffled and blinkered by the money hungry government who would rather make oil shares than look after its own! So it is left to us, ladies and gentlemen, me and you – ordinary, educated and loyal communities to look after our own! Do you think we should let this state of affairs continue?"

"No!"

"Are we responsible for taking control of our own lives?"

"Yes!"

"Then let's show them we can bring justice to the decent and the righteous! He will be judged fairly and punished to fit his crimes!"

He swept up to Scott, all righteous, pompous fury. "Let the accused speak his name."

Scott didn't even twitch. He stared straight ahead, expressionless. He wasn't going to participate in this idiotic farce.

Inwardly, his mind was churning away with thoughts. This guy, Father Stewart, didn't come off as ordained. He probably wasn't – like many men like him he used the spectre of religious authority to cow and impress. He was probably mediocre in real life – he liked controlling and organising but was never in a position to do so. He took power wherever he could leech it.

God, his head hurt.

"He has no respect for justice, as you can see. No sense of decency!" Father Stewart bellowed out his accusations to the angry mutter of the group. Converts, all of them.  
The shock was sudden and unexpected, and Scott arched against his bonds as the electrical current seared across him muscles. It stopped almost immediately, but Scott heart was hammering and his muscles spasmed. He gasped for air.

"You will answer the question, boy!"

The hell with it. They probably already knew anyway. "Scott Tracy," he gritted.

"Hear that infamous name! You all know chapter and verse of his father's crimes. His son follows the same path. Jeff Tracy, the twisted, corrupted tyrant who rose walking on the backs of normal men, crushing them, destroying lives and dreams in his search for money and power! If ever you need an example of perversity and power-madness, of abuse of the common man, of unholy powers used to break honest men and corrupt others, you need only go as far as Jeff Tracy! Am I right? We've all seen it! We've seen how he rose to his place using his unfair advantage, casting down better people in his path! Am I right?"

Over the applause and enthusiastic 'yes's', Scott boiled slightly. _That's my _father_ you're talking about you bigoted bastard_, Scott hissed to him mentally. A man who rose against great adversity on sheer talent and force of personality. Who kept his integrity, even in the twisting paths of corporate America. His Dad. These people didn't know him from a hole in the ground.

The crowd was really in frenzy now, on their feet, shaking their fists shouting and clapping and generally making a din. Father Stewart raised his arms for calm. The crowd settled obediently.

"Now, now, ladies and gentlemen, let us be sober and clear-minded as we judge. Their must be order and justice, otherwise there is nothing. Passion cannot rule intelligence, vulgar emotion to steal rationality. Otherwise we are no better than those poor, unnatural fools."

First we're to be hanged, and then pitied, Scott mused to himself. Make up your minds, people.

"The accused will answer for his crimes," Father Stewart spun on the trussed up Scott, who had very carefully kept his head bent to the floor while his heart slowed down. "Scott Tracy, you stand accused of the corruption and destruction of normal people's lives, the stealing of the food from their mouths, the clothes from their back. You are accused of using your unnatural talents to smooth you way in life, against the honest endurance of ordinary people. Do you deny it, or own it?"

Scott didn't reply.

The shock ripped through his nerves once more.

----------------------------------------

When Virgil awoke, his head was still pounding and his temples were still being squeezed in a vice. The pain started from the back of his neck, where it was a tight wound knot of pure agony, tendrils creeping around the sides of his head, across the taunt brow and settled in the hollow of his eye sockets. Virgil blinked past the blurry, grey fog of his vision, staring at the panelled ceiling while his mind cleared. The deep black of unconsciousness hovered at the edge of his vision for what seemed like a long while, before everything cleared.

The pain wasn't like it was before. It made him fuzzy around the edges but it didn't knock out his ability to think anymore. He tried to move, and was startled to find he could – the restraints had been taken away, and there was a rush of sharp ache in his extremities as his circulation was restored.

Virgil took a shaky breath. What had happened the last time he awoke was fuzzy and disjointed – it felt like half a nightmare, something far away and distant, but it was coming closer again. He rotated his head, trying to relieve the painful tension. As he turned his head to the side, he saw a table had been moved into the room, a huge, heavy steel thing that must have taken some effort to get into the room. The chairs were light plastic. Nothing had any hard edges on it. There was no conceivable way to use any of it as an impromptu weapon. Facing him with impassive faces were four people, two men and two women, lined across one side of it. Virgil tried to make sense of this in his still sluggish mind.

"Bring him," ordered chair number one, a grey, bald plated man, dressed in a black uniform. They were all in black uniforms.

The guards, standing in Virgil's blind spot, hauled him abruptly to the table and plonked him into the one free chair facing the black clad line. Disorientated, Virgil didn't even have the wherewithal to struggle or resist. He flexed his hands around the round edges of the table, struggled to stay upright. His whole body felt like a dead weight. Forcing himself to breathe, he raised his heavy head to face his captors. Heavy was right – the helmet was still there, adding several extra pounds of unwanted weight.

Now that he could think fairly straight, he could take stock. His clothes were gone. He was wearing some sort of all purpose jump suit is a sickly bright green. The white room was glaring, and the lights bounced off the silvery mirror that lined an entire wall from, edge to edge. Dizzy and disjointed, Virgil still knew that people were watching through that mirrored wall.

"Virgil Tracy, you will answer our questions," said chair number two, this time a woman with an unpleasant voice and a lemon sour face. The bright lights cast shadows across their faces, making them into grim caricatures of faces that Virgil couldn't make beautiful on any canvas with any medium of art.

Virgil tried out his misused throat muscles, and found his mouth to dry to get more than a rasp out. There was a plastic cup of metallic water in front of him. Virgil spilled most of it with shaking hands, but no one was moving to help him, preferring mere to stare blankly as his indignity. The water roiled angrily in his nauseated stomach, but he held it in.

"What….do you…want…from me?" he choked out.

"We want the truth, young man," chair number one answered, faintly unctuous. "You have been detained for reasons of National Security," Virgil could hear the capital letter slotting themselves in front of the words.

"Is…that the same as 'arrested'," the snarky comment slipped out past his half demolished defences. Virgil was rarely careless with his words.

"I wouldn't be so flip, if I were you, Mr Tracy," said chair number three, the other woman, in a slick suit and iron grey hair. "If you are found guilty of subversion and psychic terrorism, you will be institutionalised and never released, if you don't receive the death penalty."

_So no, not the same as arrested,_ the sneering, angry voice that just wouldn't shut up hissed inside of him._ No phone call, no trial, no lawyer…_

See? There's a silver lining anywhere.

Oh, _shut up_, Virgil told the voice. His thoughts were still all over the place.

"Where were you on the Sunday the White House was attacked?" Chair number one's voice was a stone cold monotone. Four sets of eyes were turned on Virgil. Like snakes.

Virgil took deep breath, and grouped his thoughts. "We were here. Assuming I'm still in my home town. We were at the museum. My dad was in an exhibit there, we went to see it." The statements came out flat and irritable, past the rasp and the stutters. "If you don't believe me check the security point records. We're in there. That's how you keep track of us, isn't it? I know we don't carry those damn cards for fun." There was another sarcastic comment taking control of his tongue. Virgil winced as the pressure at the base of his neck worsened for an instant.

"There are ways around that, young man," chair number two parried archly. "You people have worked together before to break the law, such manipulation is typical of you."

Virgil took careful note of the 'you people'. The 'you people' truly got his attention. "It might be typical of some people. Criminals, delinquents or something. But my family is not, and we didn't. If you could prove otherwise you would have had to get me illegally, would you?"

Geez, he had to learn to control his mouth. The vice gripped harder than before, and the water he had drunk rose up acidly in his throat. He swallowed desperately.

"You have been detained within rights," chair number two stated firmly.

_Says you_, hovered on the tip of Virgil's tongue, along with a host of other obscenities and angry declarations. He bit them back.

"Neither my family or I," he enunciated slowly and carefully, as if they were deaf and stupid. "Had anything to do with the attack on the White House, or any other crime, subversion, act of aggression or deviance." He very carefully didn't challenge them, didn't dare them to prove otherwise. From here until the end of this little charade, it was that and name, rank and serial number.

"You've never broken the law with regard to your psychic powers?" chair number one asked.

"No."

"Never."

"No."

"What about the incident on Monday night at the Harbourtown Mall?"

"Yes?" Virgil wasn't going to jump to any conclusions, help them in any way.

"Do you deny you publicly displayed psychic abilities on a minor?"

"No."

"That you were arrested under code 10-98, a Psychic Assault Situation?"

"Yes."

Chair number three leaned forward, her eyes intense. "You deny it?"

"Yes. We weren't arrested. We were detained." Virgil didn't let the cheeky smirk show. Stuff that in your pipes and choke on the smoke. "No charges were bought. No criminal offence was committed."

"Yet you were willing to use your powers on the public?"

Virgil didn't let them see the slow breath he took. He was good at circular breathing; he was a musician after all. He knew what they were trying to do. They were going to be as pedantic and as anal as possible, gut out the facts, poke at every tiny detail, throwing all the flaws in his face, angering him, making him lose control.

"Under what circumstances?" Virgil asked carefully.

"I beg your pardon?" Chair number two seemed almost affronted.

"Do you know under what circumstances I used my gifts?" Virgil repeated clearly.

"We're asking the questions."

_Gotya_. "So you don't," Virgil answered Chair-one stubbornly. The vice was beginning to clench again.

There was an awkward pause as Virgil's interrogators contemplated the corner they'd been cunningly backed into. Either they had to admit they knew nothing of the rescue, which diminished their power, or they could say they knew everything, thereby admitting that there was no criminal act to charge Virgil with.

Virgil sagged in his seat as the Psy-Blocker did its damage. It was an insubordination, but one Virgil couldn't resist making. Now he knew the extent to which they could push.

"Your smart, aren't you boy," Chair-one leaned forward, his eyes predatory. "Well you might want to try being a little less clever. You are a serious contender as a suspect in the White House attacks. You and your family. You'll want to start helping yourself."

Virgil went slightly colder. His family wasn't here – at least they had better not be. These idiots in front of him would have taunted him with that to get him off balance, wouldn't they?

He felt a flicker in the corner of his vision. The fourth chair, a small whip of a man, who hadn't spoken a word so far, shifted slightly. Virgil felt his thoughts jump onto a nasty, suspicious train.

"I don't know what you know about the actual events of the White House attack, Mr Tracy," Chair two said briskly, organising papers in front of her. "But least five people were witnessed breaking through the security checkpoint by setting it on fire and knocking out several highly trained Secret Service agents. There was a mass hysteria attack suffered by almost every member of staff in the White House, which means the reports from inside the White House about the group's movements is sketchy, but the security tapes show them gaining access to the Oval Office, and assaulting the President and several other people in the room, killing four of them. Their abilities were described as pyrotechnic, telekinetic, and some sort of telepathic/empathic mental manipulation. Several Agents discharged their weapons at the group, but none of them was injured, and the bullets never seemed to strike them. Witnesses able to testify were clear as to the group's organised and choreographed attack. They worked as a unit, they didn't leave others behind. Several of our profilers have postulated that it was a close group with a clear rank system. A platoon unit, perhaps. Or a family." They were watching him very carefully.

Virgil didn't roll his eyes, though he wanted to. That was their evidence?

"Do you deny that your family would have the abilities described in the attack, that they do, in fact, have the means to make such an attempt on the life of the President?"

A neat little trap of words that Virgil couldn't deny. But he wasn't going to give any ground. "Yes of course. And so do you. And so does anyone with access to a flame thrower and some body armour. And unfortunately my family and I are not the only powerful psychics in the country."

"You are the only powerful ones grouped together for a long enough time form a cohesive unit, the only ones with the full range of psychic abilities needed to carry out such an attack. Ergo, you are the only ones capable of doing so." Chair three was insufferably smug.

_Right_, Virgil thought bitterly. _Psychic can't be grouped together in schools, or workplaces or the armed forces. Can't let them get any fancy ideas, now can we? No, we can't have that._ Virgil's eyes flickered to the small man in the fourth chair. _Do you agree, chair number four? No, you probably don't_.

The slight twitch of expression was lightning fast across the man's face, invisible to anyone who wasn't looking for it.

Virgil smirked mentally. _Raised with a telepath, remember?_ God, he wished Johnny was here. He would have picked up on the psychic's presence almost instantly, and would have had more fun with him.

The thought made an overwhelming longing rise in Virgil. He wanted to see his Dad. It was long past the age where he needed his Dad's protection for everything, but somehow when he was around there was just never any question that it would all work out. The telepath in the fourth chair didn't pick up on it. Virgil had shielded his own mind like steel.

The fourth chair, the telepath, shifted in a vexed sort of way. He leaned over to whisper in chair-three's ear, who pursed her lips.

"We only need one witness to say it was you to incarcerate you permanently," she said coldly. "And out there the PRA is being given permission to shoot to kill in apprehending other suspects in this case. If you want to help yourself and your family, you had better start seriously thinking about giving us honest information. Before it's too late to save them. They can even shoot minors, did you know?" She waved imperiously to the guards. "Take him to lock up, and let him think his situation over for a few hours."

"When we next see you, you will be back in the chair," Chair one gestured to the metal table Virgil had spent hours being strapped to. "Reflect on that also."

Hauled to his feet his was half shoved and half dragged out of the room. The Psy-blocker was making his neck stiff and achy, and made his balance shaky. He was bounced from guard to guard, and they had no problem with his banging into walls and stumbling to his knees. By the time they reached the elevator at the end of the Spartan, metal lined and featureless corridor, both his knees were scraped and bloody, his hands as well.

They restrained him at the cold steel back of the industrial elevator as it winched down. Virgil tried to count the seconds it took to get down, but the Psy-blocker was still doing it horrible job.

Hauled out and arms twisted up behind him, he was escorted into a wide, catwalk lined cavern deep in the bowels of the building. Virgil was almost in his cell before he registered what kind of place it was.

Row after row, stack after stack, cold sparse cells lined the walls. Pallid, tired faces looked out at Virgil with weary indifference as he was chucked into his own cell. The slam of the multilayer door echoed through his aching skull.

The floor was cold and hard and gritty. The lights were white and buzzing. Virgil lay still on his stomach; eyes squeezed shut, waiting for his head to wander back in.

-----------------------------------------------------

"Get off me. Get _off_ me!" Gordon struggled against the hands that restrained him in vice grips either side. He'd been dragged out of the bar out into the back alley and he was certain he was dealing with at least one telekinetic because he hadn't felt any hands on him when he was shoved into the packing crate and carted a few bewildering blocks. Whoever it was managed to keep his jaw clamped shut, hard enough to make his jaw ache.

Now freed, he didn't see any problem in being extremely vocal in his displeasure. He listened to the way his voice bounced around the large space. A warehouse, Mel had said. It sounded like a large space, and Gordon noted the rustlings of at least a sizable group. He'd have to keep his senses sharp and his brain awake if he was going to stay alive.

"God dammit, just take the damn hood off!" Gordon shouted, enraged. "It doesn't matter if I'm heard, so it can't matter if I see! Get _off_!" It was a wild, blind burst of flame and it cost Gordon a great deal, but there was a gratifying sound of several people hurriedly stepping backwards.

He ripped the hood off. He was bathed in the dim light of dusty bulbs lining the walls of the huge rusting monolith, and shaded lights from a dozen different directions.

It was like a tiny, enclosed shanty town. It had been partitioned off with a wild array of any material available – wood slats, sheet metal, cloth, tarp, wire mesh. Each little area was a tiny space for one or two, mismatched bedrolls and blankets, various personal items, toiletries, amenities, most of which looked scrounged or cobbled together. Walkways and paths wound erratically throughout, blossoming out from what could be called the town square, a central space where Gordon had been dragged and was now surrounded by at least two dozen or more people, who were glaring at him defiantly from the perimeter.

The people were much like their residence – dressed shabbily and slightly mismatched looking, thin, tired, weary and surviving rather than living. The only one well dressed was Kite, and this was only a nominal comparison – the black leather was hardly respectable. He stood in front of Gordon at the head of the circle, like a king in his court. His little cousin was shuffled up next to him, silent and watchful as ever.

"Use your powers here without permission and we'll dump your body in the water." Kite's voice was a cold growl of authority.

Gordon felt his mouth clamp shut painfully again, and realising it was futile to try to pry it open, settled for standing perfectly still and glaring. Gordon was getting angry. He didn't do fear very well at all.

"You're surrounded by gifted people, Tracy. People with nothing to lose. People who can do all the damage the PRA squawks about. And they got no reason at all to like you, Tracy, so my suggestion is very clear. Either comply, or go to hell. We're all gifted here, you'll never even know who it's coming from.

_Wanna bet?_ Concentrate Gordon. If a psychic is reaching for you, you'll know who. Just because you're an active not a passive doesn't mean you're insensitive. Think. Feel. Use your senses, it's all there in your head….

John's words were like a balm, and funny they should come to him here, when he needed them. But his family were always there when he needed them.

His jaw was free again. "Dark haired, dark skinned woman hiding between the large tattoo guy and the old lady with the braid," he massaged his aching mouth. "No offence to your skills lady, but my brother was a lot gentler when he did it."

There was an astonished murmur from the crowd as Gordon pinpointed his gagger with precise accuracy. Thank you John, your anal retentive need to teach the full spectrum of the soft talents has not been wasted.

Kite was unimpressed. "What I said still stands. You break our rules, and you're out the door, and I don't mean you walk out. You want our help, then you gotta help us in return. Simple bartering, got it?"

Gordon was wary. "Help like what? And can we cut the cryptic bullshit for once? I've had a hell of a night."

"We'll help you find your family. In return you help us with one of our missions – the details are inconsequential, but we routinely make it our business to rescue psychics from institutions and carers and the like. That's how most of us ended up here," Kite waved a hand at the gathering. "You help us with one of these, we'll use our network to help you."

Looking around him, at this tired, worn out, scruffy group, Gordon was having a hard time believing they could help him, let alone that they would even try. His was ringed by distrusting, angry faces. "And if I don't agree?" Gordon asked, looking back at Kite. He noticed the trap being set – the details were never inconsequential.

"You didn't seriously think you were going to walk out of here, did you?" Another voice said as another teen sidled out from the crowd. Gordon's eyes narrowed as he looked him over – a faint memory tugged at him. Suddenly he was slammed onto the ground and pinned like a giant hand was clamped across his back. After a moment of watching stars, Gordon was careful not to struggle, although he did manage a smart "do you treat all you guests like this?" out through clenched teeth. Suddenly the pressure was gone.

"That's enough, Chandler!" Kite's furious voice echoed across the network of girders and claw lifters hanging stationary overhead. "We want his help, you moron!"

It was the first time he'd ever seen the usually tightly wound Kite get angry, and it was a furious, white rage that caused people to step back. Gordon got to his feet to face his repentant attacker, and gave his feature a careful check just to be sure. Yep, he was right. All the annoyance, tension and righteous fury bubbling inside him since the raid was fast cooling into something sharp and hard, and now it had a target. "You," he spat. "You're that jackass with the silver lighter from the museum. What are _you_ doing here? What is he doing here?" Gordon turned back to Kite, glaring. "Do you know this guy? Did you stick him on me at the museum?" He watched the leather clad anarchist, waiting for the lie. The rest of the crowd was tense. An angry psychic is never a safe psychic.

"Yes, we were watching you at the museum," Kite admitted, completely unruffled. "It was a test, to see if you were really as powerful as you claimed. I didn't need the help of some high profile wannabes. In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't a high paying gig."

"And my Dad was the only rich psychic in the area," Gordon rolled his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised. It wasn't like it was the first time anyone had ever tried to get to Jeff Tracy's money through his sons. There were family outings when none of the Tracy boys could go two steps without being besieged by charities, hopeful entrepreneurs, con men and various hangers-on. The blade edge of his anger was suddenly so much more cutting. He didn't like being used, particularly for something as small as money.

"Nice to know you're honest and forthright in your dealings. That really makes you trustworthy," Gordon hissed at the impassive Kite.

"Hey, we had to know you weren't just posers. A lot of rich brats like to play pretend for the mystique. If you weren't the real deal, then chances are you just line the PRA's bank account like the rest of rich, white America," Chandler shrugged, smirking. "Sorry about your kid brother, but it was nothing personal."

Gordon straightened, relaxed and gave a bright smile. There was a slight easing of the tension from the crowd.

Gordon's fist caught Chandler across the chin and lifted him up, sending him back several feet and on his back on the concrete.

"Nothing personal. I just wanted to see what you looked like on the ground," Gordon smirked. He'd been wanting to do that since the museum. Wood chopping was not conductive to a contented soul.

He turned back to Kite, suddenly back in control of the situation. The heavily built guy was slightly tense, pinning Gordon with his dark eyes. "You know, you've got a point. I don't have any options here. I go out on the streets and it's a matter of time before the PRA shows up. And I need to find my family, you're right. But you need to understand something – my Dad knows where I am. If anything happens to me, he's going to track me here. Do you really want to take bets on your chances if my Dad decides to tear you down? Do you think he'd stop at merely getting you arrested or disbanded? You cross the Tracy's, and you won't see the light of day again. That's a promise. You tell me what you want from me, I'll decide if it's worth my while. We're just going to have to compromise, okay? I'd really hate to have to destroy you. But don't you think I won't, if I have to. Right?"

Kite glared at him from under his bangs while the silence stretched. Eventually he nodded. They would compromise.

-------------------------------------------------

John only came awake very slowly. He felt like he had a hangover, with the added insult of getting no enjoyment from alcohol the night before. His back hurt – he'd been unconscious in a tense ball. He sat up, dizzy and nauseated, trying to ease the incessant crick in his neck.

Suddenly he looked around wildly. Where the hell was…

It was a poky little room, containing one cot, blanket, a pillow and nothing else. The walls were water stained and the paint was peeling around the cracked plaster. The door was ancient and painted, and slightly ajar.

Well, he wasn't with the PRA, that was for certain. They had a massively over bloated budget. John's mind was a white blank after the phone company. He remembered going there and getting in trying to find the location of his family, anything at all. Then it all got fuzzy.

He leaned against one pitted wall, just breathing until his balance came back. He had to find out where the hell he was. He looked over at the window, even though it made his dry eyes sting. Daylight filtered through – it was mid-morning, or there about. He'd been down for six hours.

Staggering slightly, he fought his way to the peeling door, and out into a narrow corridor, dim and grey with threadbare red carpet. At the end of the corridor a spike haired teen, leathered and studded, blowing bubblegum while tapping the back of his chair on the while he slanted it back.

"Oh, hey, you're awake," he turned to John briefly, before turning down the corner of the corridor and yelling down the narrow stairway. "Hey, he's up!"

"Lord, boy, how many times to I have to tell you, no yelling in the house!" someone yelled back.

A tall, fit, grey haired man strode up the stairs to give the lad a playful cuff around the ear, before turning to John. "Hello son. I just want you to relax, okay? You're with friends. We picked you up outside the phone company and got you away before the PRA got there. You're safe, I promise. My name is Dale Kwaldon."

John blinked and ran a hand over his face. He was too tired and too overexerted to try verifying the truth of it telepathically, but John couldn't honestly see any reason why he would be lied to. "Who are you?" he croaked softly, leaning against one wall.

"We're members of the Psychic Protection network. We campaign for the rights of psychics across the US. You've heard of us?"

John had, vaguely. They were always just, around, like a balancing weight for the PRA and the anti-psychic rabble. The Tracy's had never been involved in the groups, oddly enough. Their privacy had taken precedence over everything, although John was fairly sure that his Dad made donations to the more credible ones because, well, it wasn't like they couldn't be on their side.

"Kind of," John answered slowly. "Where am I? What time is it?"

"You're in our local HQ, our meeting house. It's around about ten thirty. Do you want to come down for something to eat? Or we can bring something up if that's too much exposure." Dale Kwaldon seemed very eager to please. "Oh, and this is my son, Danny."

He cuffed the boy back on the head playfully again.

John rubbed his face over, trying to wake up. "Pleasure," he said finally. He carefully gave himself a mental diagnostic. "I should be fine," he added cautiously. "To go down, I mean."

"Great! Follow me."

The headquarters were old, a former town house in a rundown neighbourhood close to the industrial district. The rooms were too claustrophobic to house as many people as seemed to be wandering around, but in what had been the main dining room there was a working office, old terminals mounted onto one wall with volunteers tapping away at them. A bench table took up most of the rest of the space, people poring over papers, enveloping flyers, basically giving the impression of focused busyness.

Everyone looked up when he came in, and John became the focus of a group smile. He shifted uncomfortably. He hated being the centre of attention.

"Take a seat, John, take a seat," Dale directed him to one of the empty chairs. "Maria! Could you bring some food in from the kitchen? Thanks dahl."

John wanted to say not to go to any trouble, but he was tired and aching and dizzy and he knew he had to clear his head and start really thinking about his options. Food would at least keep him going for a while.

"How did you know my name?" John asked after he'd been settled into the seat and Dale was in hover mode.

"Everyone knows the Tracys, son," Dale nodded knowingly.

"The most powerful psychic family in the US," one woman grinned from the envelope piles.

"And the richest," added another man from the terminals.

"And you consistently tell the PRA where they can shove it," Dale summarised. "You're an example to most psychics and pro-psychics, son."

John didn't know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. He did know that he wished Dale wouldn't call him son. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the man getting him out of trouble and away from the PRA, but John was feeling rather raw right now, and the only man he wanted calling him 'son' was his own father.

"I appreciate everything you've done for me. You'll be in trouble if they find me here," John pointed out as the sandwiches were brought in.

"Not likely," Dale snorted. "You've missed quite a bit since you've been asleep. The news this morning had your dad on it."

John sat up straight. "What? Really?"

"Really," Dale smiled. "He made an announcement to the effect that the PRA were gunning for him, and then the PRA came in – just in time to be told that they're being audited for abuse of power. I don't think they'll have the power to arrest you now. It's all on tape and all over the papers."

John smiled grimly. "Go Dad."

"It's amazing," said one of the volunteers from the terminals enthusiastically. "We've been tracking the situation since it started. We've been using the network to track the events. We think we can find your brothers with what we have."

John looked up. "You can? How?"

---------------------------------------------

Alan had spent an uncomfortable night on the train coupling, gaining enough courage somewhere in the night to crawl across the shipping containers until he found an alcove on a flat rack where he could curl up safely. He hadn't slept – it had been windy and uncomfortable on the freight train, and he'd been too keyed up and too headachy for sleep. He'd watched the dawn come and go as the freight train pulled up to its next stop, a real station and not just a depot terminus. It rolled into the train yard slowed to a stop against the rest of its fellows.

Alan uncurled himself and dropped off the flat rack and onto the shifting rocks that made the ballast under the tracks. His legs were cramped and sore, and his head felt just as bad as it had hours ago. He walked out the cramp wandering along the train yard, heading toward the station proper. He was tired and hungry and cold. He didn't know what to do once he got to the station. His journey was turning into a series of last minute decisions meant only to get him through the next small problem.

No one stopped him as he walked into the station terminals and climbed up the maintenance steps onto the platform. No one seemed to notice him, and he wasn't in a position to notice anyone either. He felt dazed and disconnected.

He wandered into the main foyer and tried to find somewhere to sit where he could really think. He didn't even know where he was.

He found a bench and slumped on it.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Alan jumped at the familiar, drill-bit voice. He spun around to face Andrea Valentin-Smith. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you get back on the train, but the agents couldn't find you," the woman's voice was smug. "You had to have gotten off somehow. It was just a matter of finding out where the freight train stopped. It was pretty easy to get here ahead of it."

Alan felt a cold, sinking feeling as she held up and flourished triumphantly a back pack he hadn't even thought of when he got off the train.

"You really should remember to take your things with you," Andrea smirked. "Alan Tracy."

------------------------------------------------

"They did _what_?" Mr Fenill demanded

"Them, or one of them," Agent Aphril, surveillance expert, shrugged. "Sent the SUV's GPS to the PRA's head office. We spent most of the night tracking the damn mail truck across town with the satellite. I don't relish putting that on the expense report."

"Do you know where it came from? What night post? Did you fingerprint the package? The GPS? Can you find the SUV? Come on, Aphril, lets get some real policing in the works here! They're still in the city – most of them, anyway. They're tired and improvising, it shouldn't be any problem to track them." Mr Fenill's frustration was carefully channelled, but present nevertheless.

"Look, do you have any idea what's been going on since you went down to the civil records to look up Tracy's property holdings? Some hackers got into our system; we've been inundated with false leads and sightings from branch offices. Our agents in Maine, Texas and Oklahoma have requested emergency field agents to deal with four botched prisoner transfers which lead to two attempted escapes. Directors from all over the country have been flying to Wisconsin on a false national security call. The New York office just got a truck load of pastries that are blocking the lobby and they had to rob the payroll to pay for them. And the coffee. Anyone who hasn't been shuffled, transferred, promoted or demoted had been out chasing leads from here to Albuquerque – confirmed sighting, massacres, disasters, locations of our twenty most wanted – we haven't got the man power for anything but damage control right now, understand? Half the Agents in this office have been transferred or fired, according to the system. The other half don't even know their ranks any more, their departments, and no one knows which way is up! We've been getting calls from the presidential staff and the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and the rest of the alphabet soup asking what the hell's going on here, and the directors are trying to find a diplomatic way to say 'we haven't got a freaking clue'. And the Miles Keye commission representatives are showing up at HQ in four hours to begin the audit. Tracy just became low on everyone's priorities, okay?" Aphril ran hands through his military buzz cut, managing to look completely harangued nevertheless.

Fenill grunted. "If we can prove Tracy had something to do this the attack on Washington, then the Writ goes void and the audit is unconstitutional. Problem solved. Put him _back_ on the priority list, will you? Unless you like unemployment office décor." Fenill stalked out of the office, feeling an overwhelming need to punch something. Well, Tracy had warned him, hadn't he? He only gave one warning before going in all guns blazing. Fenill had no idea how he managed to engineer all of this locked down at Tracy Corp, but he was determined to prove it was so.

His phone rang.

"Yes?" he answered tersely.

"We're still checking Tracy Corp's properties sir," one of his underling agents answered. "So far, no sign that they were there, or that they are heading there. It will take at least twelve more hours to check them all."

Fenill cursed. "I want every agent available on this. Take guys out of the archive, the service staff, everyone. I want those properties checked and I want it done by lunchtime tomm…today. Clear?"

"Yes sir," the underling sighed, and hung up.

Fenill dropped into his chair at his desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hackenbacker wasn't at Tracy Corp, they'd scoured every inch and stopped the train. Tracy must have stashed him somewhere he knew – it was all just a process of elimination from here.

------------------------------------------------

End Part IX


	10. The Psychic Problem

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds doesn't belong to the author, and they make no money off it.

Warnings: Language and Adult Themes

Authors Notes: I know, I _know_, this chapter was due about a month ago. I'm sorry. It's just that I can't really write during the week anymore, and if I'm busy on the weekend, well, that's it for that week. That, and I spent a couple of weeks on the other story 'In At The Death'. And what's worse is, there no action! This chapter just fills in the plot, sets some scenes. Next chapter, I promise, will have lots of good stuff.

To anyone who's stuck with me so far, you're well on your way to sainthood.

Thank you to all my reviewers.

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Part X – The Psychic Problem

_In which there is – Morning in Kansas – Sleepless – The Psychic Problem – Hostile Manicurist – Drifting – Insane Places – Disappeared – Hard Labour, Harder Prejudice – the Mission – News – Situational Dyslexia – N o Truths – Cornered – Tracked_

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It was a dismal trio that sat around the wood table in Kansas while the birds sang and the wheat whispered secrets in the hot summer air.

"So," Grandma Tracy said grimly. "That's the way of it then."

"I..am S-sorry, Mrs Tracy," Brains spoke humbly, completely taken aback with the warmest of welcomeshe'd received from this straight laced woman since he met here. He got great respect from his peers and polite interest from most others, but this woman, who had no truck with any science aside from the kind that made the wheat grow thick and the good winds blowing, had treated him as one of her own. She'd been caring and gentle with the disorientated Fermat when he woke, making sure he could eat, that he was well, and then, surprisingly, giving him a few light odd jobs around the place, which helped keep him busy and seemed to speed along his recovery better than any sleeping cap or pill. Brains felt he should take notes.

"Oh? You have a high opinion of yourself then, Mr Brains," Grandma Tracy replied archly. "The PRA don't need reasons, just excuses. If not for you, it would have been for some other flimsy idea. At least it was for something important."

It was an odd way of putting it, perhaps better than Brains had a right to expect from the mother of the man on which he'd bought so much trouble. Brains would continue to feel bad about it, no matter what she said. Jeff Tracy was his friend, perhaps the one person in his life that had earned such a title. And now all this mess…

"Well, there's no call to be down here like Idle Izzy's," Grandma Tracy rose like a fortress. "I'm going to clean out the house, you boys can have the root cellar in the barn – it's quite hard to see if you don't know where the door is. Make sure it's good and free of dust, now."

Bewildered, Brains rose with her, wondering what she was talking about and coincidently how she was going to clean out the already spotless farmhouse. "I d-d-don't understand, ma'am."

"I'll wager you don't get to say that often," Grandma Tracy said wryly. "What I mean, son, it that I fully expect the PRA to be here by tonight, and I will _not_ let them see me living in a pigsty. I have some pride."

"_W..W..W…Huh?_"

----------------------------------------------------

Jeff spent an uncomfortable night in his office, laid out on the office couch. It wasn't that the couch was uncomfortable; it was designed to take Jeff when he pulled all nighters. And it wasn't that Jeff wasn't tired – throwing around helicopters like tinker toys was not a job for the faint of heart, and wasn't a repeatable experience for the strong. He felt the dull ache in his bones, and cotton wool edges on his brain drowning in its own toxic chemicals. He needed sleep, and after the day he'd had plus several straight hours of paperwork, statements, affidavits and networking after he'd finally been given the opportunity for a moment before formal interviews started – enough for a shave and a sleep.

But Jeff, exhausted and harassed, stared vacantly at the ceiling through gritty eyes. He tried every trick, every technique he had learned through many a night of insomnia to give his brain some much needed rest, or at least take the edge off. He knew it was useless. He wouldn't rest comfortably until his sons were back within his boundaries and safe. If they never did, then he and sleep will have parted ways forever.

The computer was right there. Access to the satellites. To the homing necklaces. To his _sons_. And he didn't dare even look at it. Not with every move being watched.

Where did all this _start_? Jeff pondered this mostly for something to do. Not just the PRA, not just this whole mess, but the _whole_ thing, the whole great psychic problem unravelled and untangled, freed from decades of complications and lies, traced back to the one key starting point.

Mr Miles and Dr Keye presented themselves in Jeff's mind. Ah yes, the great precursors, the _official_ recognition of psychics was tied up with the two of them. Their influence was so great their names became a tag for anywhere where the psychic and the normal clashed. The Miles-Keye Constitutional Amendment. The Miles-Keye Commission. The Miles-Keye Argument. And separately you had the Joseph Miles Legal Trust in Washington and the Dr Sterling Keye Guild of Parapsychology in London.

They hadn't been men of great influence in the beginning. Keye had struggled for grants for his research into psychic genes, and Miles had been a quiet, non-inflammatory professor of law and law history at Notre Dame. Then the psychic gene had been proven and, five years later the two men had met by chance in a tiny café in London, and had, by some random comment, started talking about psychics.

And the rest was history, mostly. The two men, as an intellectual exercise, had hashed out a proposal for dealing with the point where the law and science met at the psychic problem. Miles provided the law - the civil rights, the legal use of powers, the measures needed to accept psychics into society; and Keye provided the science – the health care, the biological facts, the level system. This little proposal, this little intellectual exercise, became the bible for the psychic problem. Both men began working tirelessly for the psychics of their respective countries, trying to ensure humans, all human's, rights under the law and a reason for them under science.

Of course, the segregated laws used by Miles and the experiments encouraged by Keye had lead to the PRA and the current climate, but wasn't it the way of history that each mans hero was another mans tyrant? Miles-Keye wasn't a perfect system, but it was the only one of it's time and the only coherent legal and logical idea they'd had to go on. It could have been much worse.

_Could have been much better_, Jeff thought with fatigue induced resentment.

The door opened, and Jeff was on his feet before whoever it as could get a foot into the room.

"Good morning, Mr Tracy!" the cheerful voice schmoozed across the room as the visitor set down his huge duffel bag. "Let me just say right off the bat that I am completely and flamboyantly gay. I'm hitting from the other team, I'm flaming like crepe suzette, I'm as bent as a hoola hoop. That being said, I'm also Condor Reaming, it's a pleasure. Feel free to snicker at the name now and get it over with." He held out a long fingered hand to Jeff, who was staring at him. He took the hand out of reflex, and he noted there were no callouses on the man. It was hard to tell his age – his face looked about thirty five, but his hair, tied in a pony tail, was a dignified silver. He dressed casually but neatly and with style. He had a crucifix shot through one ear.

Before Jeff could even form a question, Condor Reaming shoved a hairbrush into his hands. "Here hold this for just a tick."

The door opened, and a couple of outraged agents stormed in. One was Forlan. "What the hell is this? Who the hell are you?"

"Me?" Condor Reaming put a hand to his chest, looking hurt. "You weren't told I was coming?"

Jeff was staring at the hairbrush. It was a brilliant pink, more suited to a teenage girl than anything, but there on the handle was a familiar family crest. The Creighton-Ward's went back a long way.

Okay, Condor Reaming, message received. "He's my manicurist," Jeff said levelly.

Condor nodded cheerfully. "And hairdresser, and valet in a pinch. What? One does not walk into an international business meeting with a cowlick and a five o'clock shadow. Now if you charming lads would clear out and let me do my work," he looked Jeff over critically, like a horse. "The edges are rough, but I must say the foundation is impressive. If only they all had your face, Mr Tracy, I would get paid a lot more to do a lot less. Take a seat. I'll do something about that icky stubble."

Forlan looked a little overwhelmed, not in the least because he'd just heard a grown man use the word 'icky' with a straight face. "We'll be staying in here, thank you very much," he said flatly. "You were supposed to report into security."

"I _did_," Condor said emphatically, unpacking a wealth of products from his bag. "I fixed up Lenny's varicose veins a while ago. Poor dear, you could've used his legs for a road map. He owes me."

"Lenny?" Forlan gaped. "Leonard Poole? Six foot six? Two hundred and sixty pounds? One punched through reinforced concrete?"

"It's such a neat trick," Condor replied. He took the opportunity to wink at Jeff. "And not his most impressive one, let me tell you."

The other agents started choking.

Condor looked over them. "If you want to sit in, honey, fine. But you can't afford me." He turned back to Jeff, and just for a moment a serious and savvy man looked out from that cheery, open face. "Now then, Mr Tracy, straight razor or traditional?"

Jeff grinned. Back up had arrived. And no one would ever believe it.

---------------------------------------

Scott was barely conscious when the voices overhead started talking. He wasn't on the stage anymore, he was in the back room where they'd dragged him after he passed out.

"_Has everyone been gathered?"_

"_Yes sir."_

"_We must take this gift from God. It's a sign, Ackleby. He had given us the power to act."_

"_Just as you say, sir."_

"_Get the equipment together, the word must go out! By tomorrow!"_

"_Yes, sir. Are we taking him out to the meeting again, sir?"_

"_This creature? No. They are too enthusiastic. The truth must be revealed in the right way, and at the right time. And it is…obstinate."_

"_The psychic, sir?"_

"_The abomination, Ackleby, the abomination."_

Scott, trussed up and ignored, drifted away again, waiting for the _next_ shoe to drop.

---------------------------------------------------

Virgil came awake aching and stiff, head pounding and nausea rolling in his gut. It took him a good while, staring at the grey, blank wall, to remember where he was and why. In some ways he was better off in ignorance.

His joints _screamed_ as he tried to get up. He slipped and fell, his limb shook and they supported his weight. In the end he was forced to claw forward and use a space of wall as a prop. He slumped with his back against it, panting. His neck ached insistently. The damn helmet was an unwelcome weight.

In front of him were the multilayered cell bars and walls that made up a psychic prison and beyond that there was a wall of them opposite, layer upon layer of tiny, barred and glassed cell. With his fuzzy vision he couldn't tell whether the blurs he was seeing were other people.

We must have drifted or dozed for a while, even the short crawl to his upright wall had robbed him of most of his energy. His thoughts were fuzzy and sluggish, thanks to the Blocker. It was like trying to think past a high fever. Whether sleep or trance, he awoke to the sound of hooting and howling from outside.

People hooting and howling, like an enthused crowd at a football game. Dizzy, Virgil forced his heavy limbs to move. He could still only crawl, but the six foot journey was hardly a hike. He clawed his way across and peered blearily out into the gritty light.

It took a while for the scene to get focus in his fuzzy mind, and even longer for it to make sense.

Virgil was on the first floor of the rows and the ground floor stretched out before him in a pit. There were black clad, black booted guards hooting and yelling and laughing all along the elongated quadrangle that made up the prison. They were…

…racing _people_. Shackled, _naked_ people, a man and a woman, were being kicked and jeered at as they crawled along the length of the ground floor, desperately trying to cover themselves as they shuffled along.

It was humiliating just to watch it.

It was almost over, whatever it was. The race ended and one black clad guard with shiny chevrons on his sleeves stepped forward. He had a permanent sneer on what otherwise would have been a fatherly face. "Now we all know how important it is to obey the rules, don't we? We must have rules, or otherwise it's all chaos and disorder now isn't it? Sergeant?"

He turned to an underling, a woman with her hair up in a ponytail. "Yes sir?"

"Put these back in the cells. Keep them on low rations; they're on probation in our little circle of trust."

"Yes sir."

The unfortunate pair were dragged away. Virgil turned his heavy head, but he couldn't see where they took them. There were jeers and laughter from the guards, which made Virgil sick inside the chest.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes tonight's performance. I do try to make the rules easy to follow, I surely do, so none of this is _my _fault. I suggest you don't take this out on me," he took a clipboard from another guard, and consulted it. "Since you all seem so happy to let your fellow roommates trespass on our rulebook, showers for the next week are cancelled, and who knows, we may have a plumbing leak of some kind after that, eh?" He winked in a friendly, chirpy sort of way, turning the gesture into something obscene. "So let's all just get along the best we can. Let's see…ah, yes," the man's eyes swung up to Virgil, and they were as cold and as dead as a fish on the sand. "Break out the fine china, girls and gents, royalty's visitin'. Prisoner 57690116, he's _special_, he is."

The man climbed the set of stairs near the catwalk. He marched up to Virgil's cell, where Virgil slumped on the ground near the bars and behind the glass. He sneered at Virgil with that cheerful face, grinning gratuitously. "Well, boy? You think you're special? Under Daddy's little coattails?"

Virgil tried to get his muscles to move, to rise and stand, or t least sit up under his own power, but he felt like jelly right now. He turned his face away.

The pain shot through his head, straight from the helmet, that white hot blankness that the Psy-Blocker was designed for. Virgil curled up in agony.

"Now son, you know it's rude not to answer your elders," the man grinned. "But I'll let it pass. You're new here after all. There are a few basic rules we live by in this little community and I'm sure your fellow inmates will help you along. Don't hesitate to ask, now; I'd hate for you to blunder around and embarrass yourself," the hateful man continued on as Vigil slowly uncurled himself to face his tormentor again. "My name's Major Corman and we're all just one big happy family down here, right you folks?"

There was a weary assent from the stacks. "Behave and we'll get along just fine, right? I've always wanted to meet your Dad, kid," the Major Corman's eyes had a predatory glint in their demonic depths. "But I'll settle for his precious son. I'll be taking special care of you, an important lad you are." Something glinted around his neck momentarily. Virgil's eyes fixed on it. "Oh this," Major Corman fingered it innocently. "Found it in the lost property bin. You'll let me know if you find who it belongs, won't you? A precious thing like this, gotta be worth something to someone."

He grinned chirpily again, on the grunting chuckles of his guards. Virgil's hatred for him, which was already quite impressive in the few minutes he'd known the man, had solidified.

"Lights out!"

The guards retreated and the prison was dimmed down. The guards didn't stay in the main cell area, but locked it down under several heavy doors. Virgil's could hear them slamming shut, one after the other, while he slowly pulled himself up against the wall. He let the helmet crack against it. He was tired and ill and homesick. He was, though he took great pains not to show it, rattled. Looking in the Major's eyes would do it to anyone.

"I kn-know what you're thinking," said a quiet voice from behind him, in the next cell. "You're thinking 'what a complete bastard'."

Virgil let out a breath. It was the first friendly voice he'd heard all day. "Yeah… something … like that." Even his voice was blurry.

"Re-lax, he won't pun-ish you for _those_ thoughts. That's what he _wants_ you to th-ink."

It was an odd voice. Pauses and starts appeared in the middle of words and the was a hoarse undertone to it. "I'm 00045107. But my fri-ends used to call me Chuckles."

"Chuckles?" Virgil asked as he focused on breathing.

"I always ha-ted Charles," Chuckles stuttered.

"Hi Chuckles," Virgil replied. "I'm…" he checked the coded armband that had been snapped around his wrist at some point while he was unconscious. "I'm 57690116…apparently. But y'can call me Virgil."

"Virgil," Chuckles replied, unseen. "Like the po-et."

"Nah…like the …astronaut," Virgil panted, lifting one shaking hand to feel around his forehead, as much as he could with the helmet, anyway. "Where'm I?"

"An ac-tual 'where' I can't give you," Chuckles replied eventually. "As to wh-at you are, well, you're a gh-ost, 57690116. A number that doe-sn't exist, a food bi-ll that doesn't get che-cked before it's signed. We all are. We're all people who just qu-ote 'disappeared' un-quote."

Oh _right_, that old conspiracy. People just disappeared, right, not arrested or anything but just taken and tucked away, out of sight, out of mind, somewhere where no one ever found them. Dangerous people, people who thought the wrong thoughts or did the wrong things, not illegal things but, you know, _wrong_, and maybe followed the wrong faith, or whatever. It had always sounded like complete malarkey to Virgil, who was practical and logical and knew that there was a lot more involved in making a person disappear than just showing up in the middle of the night. It was easier and less expensive to debunk people, ruin their reputation, than it was to make them disappear. It kept them from being martyrs to the cause, whatever the 'cause' was.

Look around, Virgil, they've _done_ it. They've actually disappeared people, they've built a prison where civil rights and laws and, let's face it, dignity and decency were up for grabs. And they put a complete maniac in charge, too. No one who looked that Major in the eye could believe he was sane.

"Don't wo-rry," Chuckles sighed from his cell. "You get u-sed to it. We all have."

Virgil closed his eyes. He wanted to go home.

---------------------------------------

Gordon wandered around the indoor shanty town with nothing to do. Kite had said to him hours before _'just hang around, Tracy, we'll get to out little deal later_', so Gordon hung. He could feel watchers keeping their eyes on him, making sure he didn't slip away or start using a phone, but they needn't have bothered. Gordon was drawing eyes wherever he went.

He was hungry, his bag had been taken from him somewhere, and he hadn't gotten it back. He was edgy and keyed up, tired but he didn't dare sleep. He watched the people.

They were a mixed bag. Old, young, all races, all vocations. Most of them, as far as Gordon could tell, were telepaths, empaths, psychometrists and the like. What was called 'ingoing' abilities, people to whom the whole universe poured in through their frontal lobes, leaving them fighting to stay to at the surface.  
He recognised the look. He's seen it on Alan and John many times on bad days, when their mental shields were low or they were stressed or sick. On days like that, you had to give them space. Gordon was only very young when his mother died, but he vaguely remembered days when Mom would go up to her private room in the attic and not come down for hours at a time, and it was sacrilege to disturb her.

A lot of these people had it – it was hard to describe. It was like exhaustion mixed with an amphetamine high, with the world's biggest hangover thrown in for good measure. They tended to be quiet, they didn't engage people or touch anyone. They stayed away from lights. And there were a lot of them.

And they were working together quite well, it seemed. The walls between partitions weren't exactly fortified but they might as well have been non-existent. People didn't have much, so they shared everything, passing goods from space to space, swapping stories and tools and appliances like currency, scurrying down the twisted alleyways to see friends or acquaintances. Gordon felt oddly out of place, he could feel their gazes on his back as he passed. They weren't exactly hostile, but they were alien.

At either end of the warehouse there were huge double doors, ancient delivery bays now dusted with rust. It was the only clear space in the warehouse, aside from the centre square. Well, 'clear' was a bit of a misnomer. A clapped out truck was parked off to one side and boxes of stuff were stacked around it. People went past Gordon, taking boxes, stacking them, sorting them, taking them off the truck bed. There was an air of organised busyness to it.

One of the large boxes slipped through the hands of the young woman holding it, and Gordon moved to grab it before it toppled to the floor. It was heavier than it looked, but Gordon managed to lower it to the concrete without mishap. Another pair of hands wrapped around the other side to help him. Big hands.

"Thanks," the guy mumbled shyly. He was built big – not fat or plump, but simply a slightly larger scale than ordinary. He sported a dark haired crew cut and gentle blue eyes and some ill fitting clothes. He ducked his head when Gordon looked at him. "Jus' slipped," he mumbled awkwardly. He was about Virgil's age.

"It's okay, Jack, it happens," said the young woman from above. Same dark hair and blue eyes, but she was older. And far less pleased to see Gordon. "You gonna help, rich boy, or delegate as usual?" Her eyes were icy and hard.

Gordon shrugged, not backing down from a challenge. "Need some help Jack?" he bent down to lift up one edge of the large box. Jack bent for the other side.

Not that the newly introduced Jack needed help. His arms were roped with muscles, and he could easily carry the heavy equipment with no assistance whatsoever. Already large crates lined one area, where others cracking them open. The theme was olive drab, and there were yellow serial numbers stencilled across the cartons and goods.

"Army surplus?" Gordon asked, grabbing another crate. He raised an eyebrow at the quiet Jack, who ducked his head again a shrugged.

"They sell off their stock on the base cheap every six months or so," the girl cut in gruffly. "It's clean and it's cheap. Lot's of church groups and charity's use it."

"Ah," Gordon nodded, grabbing another box. He noticed she was carrying a clipboard.

"That's blankets, they go over there," she jerked her chin towards a second pile, which looked just like the first. "I know this hard labour stuff must be new to you, but try to get it right why don't you?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. He never got on well with organisers.

Jack shuffled over to her. "He didn' know that, Janie. I didn' tell him. Sorry."

She softened towards him. "It's okay, Jack. You wanna go see what foods we got this time? You can grab the best stuff for us, okay?"

Jack's broad but friendly face brightened slightly. "'Kay." He gave Gordon a shy wave, and shuffled away. He walked with a stoop. Geez, if he stood up he could look Scott in the eye no problem, Gordon thought, and that made him tall.

"Nice guy," Gordon commented idly as the hulking guy disappeared between the stacks.

"I'm surprised you care," said a sharp voice behind him. "Keep stacking."

Gordon got back to work, and he could feel her glaring at him wherever he went. Eventually, as the last box was offloaded, he said. "Did I pass or don't I get my license yet?"

She snorted. "Yeah, that's right, make a joke out of it. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Hard to understand anything when you're being looked at over a shoulder chip the size of Death Valley. Makes people cryptic and a bit harsh. Please, Janie, tell what I've done wrong." Gordon held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of open dialogue.

"It's _Janet_, and that's all you get," Janet snapped. Gordon remained there, hands still open. "Look, this is a safe place, okay? Lots of people who have nowhere to go come here. They get beaten and spat on and thrown away and they end up here. For some of these people coming here was the first time they could live without some stupid prejudice hanging over them. Some of these people flinched when they were around people," she snarled. "They _flinched_. They dug around in trash for food, they couldn't get work, they couldn't even go to school – they have chances here, friends, safety. And you walk through here with your rich boy clothes, and your rich boy shoes, and your rich boy attitude and you have the gall to start demanding things of _us_ because the PRA messed you around – as if you even know what that's like. You'll go back to your rich boy life soon, and you won't care what happens to us when you tell all your rich boy friends about the bums that live here. _That's_ why we hate you. You're worse than the PRA – you're under their belt, you're a danger to honest people!"

Janet slapped down the clipboard on the truck bed, white with fury. But a hungry Gordon wasn't a merciful Gordon. "Excuse me?" he hissed back. "You're saying that because I have money that I'm a bad person? How about saying African people are dirty because their black, or all Jewish people are stingy or all followers of Islam are suicide bombers? For a person that stands up and says they're defending a prejudice free world you certainly hold onto a few prejudices of your own. Or is that okay because you're the victims here?"

They glared at each other.

"Oh, you can preach, can you? What kind of services did you do to earn your citizenship points? My brother had to sit in hospitals and ease the pain of people in emergency rooms and absorb their pain so they could give clear statements. He used to come home nearly catatonic from what they did. And after he was done, after he was nearly destroyed and his brain was damaged they still came after him! Oh that's right, I forgot – your father _bought_ your way out of yours."

"Is that what they say," Gordon raised a cold eyebrow. "Did they mention _my_ brothers were dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to go look inside the heart of a _serial killer_? One was _nine_. Have you any _idea_ what that did to _them_?" The rage was old but so fresh and sharp, even now. And he wasn't a patch on Dad. "You can rant all you like but I'm not going to apologise for having money."

Janet's eyes were unrelenting – but she still seemed taken aback. She opened her mouth to retort, but was interrupted.

"Tracy, come with me," Kite strode up, looking grim. "I think we can work something out."

Gordon dropped what he was doing. "Where's my pack? It had my food in it and I'm starving."

"It's been distributed. We don't often get fresh stuff. The money too. The rest is yours," Kite shrugged.

Gordon felt his anger rise up, but he felt Kite's eyes on him. He was watching to see what Gordon would do. Gordon forced himself to relax. "You might have at least taken the textbooks."

"What's yours is ours," Kite replied. "But it does work both ways. While you are here, you can get food and shelter if you ask. We share everything. Janet here knows all about that, right Janet?" he nodded to the woman and she smiled. "How is supply running?"

Janet stepped up efficiently. "We managed to get the same amount as last time, but it's not going to last s long. There are more people here now, we can't afford to waste it," she glared at Gordon as if she personally considered it wasted on him. "We're going to have to restock before the next six month breakpoint."

Kite ran a hand through his hair. "We got some money built up in the pot. Get some scavengers together. I'm counting on you to keep this working."

Janet beamed. "Yes, sir."

Oh geez, she's got two years on him, Gordon thought. Oh well, it wasn't his affair and he wouldn't be here for very long.

He waited while Kite exchanged a few words with the woman before marching away, forcing Gordon to follow. He seemed happy to walk in silence for a time, but he spoke up in a slightly amused way. "You don't seem to be making friends. Janet seemed to be of the opinion we should keep you chained to the wall and be a furnace in winter."

"Really?"

"Well, she didn't actually use your name. She said 'rich bastard', but I think I know what she meant."

Gordon didn't see the humour. "I'm not taking the blame, for her, for you, for anyone."

Kite didn't answer, but lead him up a short flight of stairs to an upper catwalk ringing the warehouse, and into a cube of an office, long abandoned by its supervisor.

This wasn't like the floor below. Below was domestic. This was military. The tiny square room was papered with maps, photographs and pages of writing. There were a few others in there, and they glared at him as he entered. He recognised the lighter guy, Chandler, and a few others that looked vaguely familiar. Kite, behind him, nodded to them, and they relaxed.

Gordon was getting an uneasy feeling. This didn't smell right.

"Do you know what this is?" Kite tossed him a photo with a dull red building on it. Gordon blinked – actually he did.

"That's the Seredo Hospital," Gordon replied solely, staring at the old picture. Boy, that took him back.  
Kite smirked in a bitter way. "I'll bet they took you to see it at least once."

More than once, actually. Although, if you didn't count medical emergencies from his psycho metabolism then he's really only been there once on a school trip.

That was before Garstone, just after Alan started mainstream schooling at around age seven. The school they went to took their classes on tour of the facilities as an introduction to psychics – there was an asylum in the basement. What an education.

Gordon had withstood the images of the psychics being treated there – some were twitching, convulsing and seizing, other were being medicated to control insanity, but they weren't nearly as bad at the ones who lay completely still, forever and ever – for all of twenty minutes before taking the white faced Alan by the hand and marching away. He'd called Dad from outside, and they had never gone back.

"What about it?" Gordon asked.

"Where going to rob it."

"What?" Gordon asked, shocked. "Rob a _hospital_? Hang on, I saw those medical concession cards being flogged around, you couldn't be hurting for the cheap stuff."

"We're not robbing the pharmacy," Chandler snorted with laughter. "We're robbing the wards. Of patients."

Gordon let that sink in. Okay, that was just _stupid_, though he was aware saying so aloud would probably get him killed. Kidnapping was a logistically difficult crime – you had to keep people quiet, fed and secured and that was if you weren't planning to kill them, which is how most kidnappings ended. "And then what?" Gordon said instead.

"I think you have a misconception about this mission, Tracy," said one guy, decked out in glasses, who bent over the table papers. "We're not going in to kidnap anyone. We're going in to rescue them."

"Rescue?" Gordon echoed. "Justifying, much? Do these people know the need to be rescued or is this one of those 'they'll thank us for it eventually' kind of things?"

Glasses guy scowled. His name was Davis, Gordon learned later on. "You came to us, Tracy. You don't know anything about what we do, so what right have you to judge?"

"I know that the streets are a slice of purgatory for psychics right now," Gordon slapped his hands down on the table, scattering papers. "People from every side of the debate want blood, the PRA are out there shooting at everything that moves, hell, ordinary people won't be safe from them much longer, and in the middle of this vat of volatile chemicals come _you_ with a box of matches and nothing to lose. Did I miss anything? Do you know what this is going to start? Do you have _any idea_…" Stop, stop. Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. Lack of food, that's what it was. He could feel his blood sugar dropping by the second and it tended to make him irrational and volatile. He needed food, sleep and his family, not necessarily in that order.

"That's why we have to do it now, Tracy," Kite growled, taking back control of situation. "We need to strike while the iron's hot, take the door as it opens. Usually there'd be agents aplenty to respond to a call there, but the PRA is in a mess at the moment. Seredo was once a top priority and now its way down on this list. This might be the only chance we have."

"Lucky for you then. Count me _out_," Gordon snapped angrily. Then he felt it – something passing over his head between the people in the room. There was more to this than just the hospital, Gordon suddenly knew that down to the bone. There's something else going on here. Whether it was his regressive clairvoyance flashing a signal or just a grooved-in instinct for trouble Gordon didn't know, but he felt like a person staring at a fifty foot square masterpiece through a tiny tube, only seeing a tiny, tiny area.

What set it off?

_Lucky for you then…_

_Lucky for you…_

_Lucky…_

Suddenly whatever it was fizzled out in his exhausted mind. Whatever thought had been taking shape sank back under dark waters.

"I can tell you what happened to your brothers," Kite dropped that words in the air with the stopping power of a rock to the face. "All of them. I've got contacts. Every person out there knows someone. It adds up."

Gordon looked Kite dead in the eye, trying to ferret out the lie. There didn't seem to be one. "I didn't come to you to be a thug in your gang," Gordon snarled at him, but part of him was begging. "I'm not going in there just on your word!"

Kite gestured to the wall. "Look here. You see these people?" There were photographs plastered across one wall. Not buildings, but people – they looked regular and ordinary, some were grimacing at the camera in that way that said they'd been holding a smile too long, other were grinning with their families, others looked like they were caught by surprise. There were about two dozen of them, varying in ages and races. Kite pointed beneath them. "Look again."

And there, below, were more photographs. There were not happy photographs. The same faces ranged up top were the ones below, but in some cases it was hard to tell. They were clinical photographs. Most of them lay like corpses, eyes closed, tubes running in and out of the photo. Their faces were grey and there was a sunken, hollowed out look to them. Some of them had their eyes open, and it was even worse looking into those blank depths.

"Some of them weren't even psychics," Kite said bitterly. "Evan Mason, former war veteran," he pointed to a fit looking man in his fifties. "He had a wife and five kids and spent most of his retirement advocating the rights of psychics to join the military of their own free will, not just for citizenship points, so they could serve their country. Serena Jahanna," he pointed to another photo, a plump black woman with an endless smile. "Came from a country where they shoot psychic children. Stood up against PRA brutality by putting surveillance on psychic homes that were in trouble – caught quite a few in the act as well. Robert Van Der Akle, Carlos Avezedo, Mary Sandomere…where do you think agitators and troublemakers end up, Tracy? When they can't arrest them, I mean? Free speech still holds, right, even for psychics? And killing them wouldn't help, but if they're admitted for hospital care somewhere – well, there thousands of medical reasons, aren't there? Thousands of complications they can choose from, thousands of ways to keep them quiet – there's drugs that'll do anything, even make you lay there unable to move, just watch…" Kite's hands were white fisted. He whirled on Gordon. "You've lived a freaking _monastery_ most of your life, Tracy. You had it good, and you had no idea how bad it was for all those who didn't have money or power or influence. You've had it easy, and you know, you could have been doing something. You could have been doing _everything_. Your father might be helping the psychic side along up there in his circles, but he's not a patch on what these people gave their lives up for. You want to be the good guy? Do something for once!"

Gordon glared at him. "Don't you talk to me about suffering. There's things about my family you can't find out from contacts and city records. You don't know crap about them, don't pretend you do. And as for my Dad? He had to choose between helping everybody or helping us – and he chose. You have no idea what it cost him, so you shut up or I'll get you to Seredo faster!"

They glared at each other. The others in the room were tense, and the tension was thick in the air.

"You won't help us?" Kite snarled.

"I didn't say that," Gordon snapped back. "It's just that I'm a very good scapegoat if things go sour, so you'll forgive if I'm not all 'forward comrades'! I'm not doing this for free! Give me something, something that I can believe, something that'll tell me you'll hold up your end of the deal when it's done and dusted!"

Kite stared at him for a long time. Eventually he nodded. "Yes…yes, alright, that's fair enough."

"Kite," Davis hissed though his prominent front teeth.

"No, he's right," Kite waved a hand, not taking his eyes of Gordon. "If he end up caught, he'll be the one swinging. So we pay him for his services, yes? But the deal holds. You give us some firepower to help pull this off or I will throw you to the PRA."

Gordon's jaw worked tensely. He looked at the pictures again. "Fine. So?"

"This one will make you laugh," Kite raised an eyebrow at him. "Did you know there was an incident at the train station last night…"

-----------------------------------------

"…the PRA tried to restore order, but by the time the after effects had faded heaps of people had escaped onto trains and stuff," Danny was saying enthusiastically.

"We first saw it on the news this morning, and we looked further into it. They didn't capture him, I'm sure of it. The PRA never misses an opportunity for a photo op." Dale shrugged his broad shoulders.

John was grinning. He couldn't help it, he felt like clicking his heels. That was Alan, he was sure of it. The youngest Tracy might seem like the most harmless but the truth was he could sneak up on you, get under your skin. By the time you realised what he was doing, it was too late. There was a reason empaths and telepaths were so closely watched. You didn't often see them coming.

"He got on the train," John shook his head, trying to get some momentum back into his thoughts. "He got away. That's my boy!" John's thoughts began moving more rapidly. "They'll be chasing him. Do you know what train he got on?"

"No, it was chaos," Dale answered, shaking his head. "One of our members works security there, though, so he'll take a gander at the security tapes while the PRA reviews them. If they find anything, we'll find it too."

Gordon must be with him, John thought. Or…maybe not. Would Gordon have let Alan do something like that? They all knew the risks, didn't they? You could only do it if it was either that or die. Alan must have been so desperate. John prayed Gordon was with him – the Sprout would need help after the blowback hit him.

Train lines, train lines… "Tell your guy to pay attention to trains running to New York. That was the plan, get to New York." John said, almost to himself.

"What's in New York?" Maria, the kitchen lady and general bustler asked curiously.

"A way out," John shook his head – though how to reach it now was a mystery. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm, the sandwiches next to him were forgotten. "What about the others?"

There was a silence that made John look up at Dale. "_What_?" he demanded.

Dale looked uncomfortable. "We think…we think…look, one of ours is a police officer and he was involved in a chase from your house when the PRA came. They lost the car, but the plates were from a man with known affiliations to hate groups. They were told not to talk about it by the PRA, which is a sure sign there's something about the car they want to keep buried."

It took John a moment to sort this out in his still fuzzy head, but when he did it was like an explosion. "What? _What_? You think one of those…those idiotic groups has my brothers? Where did they chase the car to? Where does this guy live, what group…"

"John, son, calm down…"

"You are not my father and I will not calm down!" John was on his feet, furiously. "They're going to _kill_ whoever they've got. _Kill_ them! I've got to _find_ them! I've got to…" Oh God, oh God, I've got to…John thoughts surged along a tide of panic.

"John. _John_! Take it easy!" Dale grabbed him by the shoulders. "They're not going to kill him. Not him, not now, not while they have this great opportunity…"

John felt his brain short circuit as Dale explained it to him.

They wouldn't kill him, because they had to make a show of it, right? Anti-psychic feeling was at an all time high, and now they had a real, high level psychic in their grasp, not just some poor low-level soul not strong enough to protect themselves, and isolated from society so that they had no one to help them. If they could make it public, show the 'people's power' to protect themselves from psychics, they would do more good for their cause than a million leaflets and a thousand rally marches. Then they could hold their captured Tracy up to the government and say 'what are you going to do with him? Is putting him in jail going to win you votes right now?' and if it looked like they were going soft by following the laws in place now, then the laws would be changed, wouldn't they? What a perfect way to ensure their perfect world – the psychics under heel instead of under foot.

"I know the kind of men who run these clubs," Dale shook John gently. "They're savvy operators, they know they have to let this work to their advantage, before prejudice becomes unfashionable again. He's safe, I promise."

"Unless they get impatient or bored! You have to help me find him!" John cried desperately. Who was it? Scott? Virgil? Oh God, older or younger, which was worse…

"We will. We are," Dale said soothingly. "But you can't just go running off, son. You're a marked man."

John tried to calm his heaving stomach down. Right, right, now was the time to be smart, not stupid. He would find them, whoever they were. They would get this family back together. He just breathed for a few moments, everyone staring at him.

"Anything else?' he asked gruffly.

"Well," Dale watched him carefully. "When you were down at the phone company, you wrote out some stuff," Danny wordlessly handed him some paper, crumpled and stained. John stared at it – he remembered picking it up from one of the reception desks on the way to the phone company's basement. He must have taken it with him when he lost it. "Codes and so forth. You wrote down an area code and circled it – a lot." Dale pointed to the blotchy patch. "We checked – it's a code at the edges of the industrial district, pretty much out of town. But you thought it was important. This code here," Dale's finger stabbed another bit of writing. "We think this is the PRA's code for 'transport'. We've dug into their systems as far as we dare. This one appears a lot."

John stared at the paper. He tilted his head, this way and that, squinting. His shut one eye. "Oh _damn_…" he hissed eventually.

"What?" Danny asked, staring at him.

"I can't read it," John grunted as we reached for random pamphlet that was on the table and tried the same pantomime. "I can't read."

"_What_? Wait, you go to college, don't you?" Danny was flabbergasted.

"I can usually," John sighed. He stared at the random shapes on the paper again, trying to force his mind to see the shapes of letters and numbers. Nothing but a blur of gobbledegook. He looked up into Danny's shocked face, and tried to explain. "When I overload by brain cells start misfiring. Everything gets messed up. When it's really bad I can start hallucinating and remembering things that never happened, and smelling and hearing things that aren't real. My language and communication centres get all tangled, so don't be surprised if I start talking in, oh, French, Russian, whatever, and don't even realise it. Usually it's just this, though – I lose the ability to recognise…familiar shapes, letters, numbers, that sort of thing. It's kind of a situational dyslexia."

"Good grief!" Maria exclaimed. "It's not permanent, is it?"

John shrugged. He was used to it, or at least used to dealing with it. "Not usually. Once the flood recedes a little the cells start fixing themselves – psychic minds are good at that at least. And if it's bad…" John shrugged again. "Well, it'll be the twelfth time I've had to re-learn the alphabet."

The whole room was silent and wide eyed at John Tracy.

"I thought it was just…you know, bad migraines and stuff," one red-head girl spoke up.

"Helen!" Maria hissed, scandalised.

"No, it's okay," John said. "Truthfully, I'm lucky if it's just a migraine. This isn't like the movies, lots of perks and a little pain. Being psychic is like living with a brain tumour in your head – it'll kill you just like one too."

John suddenly felt uncomfortable with all of them staring at him. "So," he continued awkwardly. "Can you help me? What can we _do_? I need to get to my Dad…"

"Oh, well," Dale started, called back to business. "We're still preparing information. But their might be something you can do. The PRA are trying to bury this and the hate groups are trying to publicise it. It might be best if we publicise our end of it too. We have people who…broadcast, understand? You go on and tell them what happened to you, and we'll put it everywhere, on the news, on primetime, on the web. That way we can drum up support on your side. It's harder to condemn someone who you've seen and listened to. Especially since they're suppressing everyone's rights, not just yours. We've got lots of evidence to back you up. We've been saving it for the right time." Dale looked pleased.

John rubbed his eyes. My family is in the middle of a tug-of-war, he thought, and contrary to the help he'd received so far from this Network, he wasn't sure how much it mattered to them if they were torn apart in the process.

But…but…John couldn't go anywhere. And frankly they needed all the help they could get. And…maybe he could at least tell his Dad that he was safe, maybe even get in to see him and that would make a difference. "I'll think about it," he conceded eventually. "And after this broadcast, then what?"

"By then we should have more to go on," Dale nodded encouragingly. "And we should have rallied enough forces to help you get where you need to go. We just need time to group. The trunk-and-thermal-blanket trick doesn't work anymore, but we'll think of something to get you out. That's a promise."

John breathed out. Okay, not even close to reassuring given how most of these people were not professionals, but then again, neither were the people running the underground railway. But what else was there? He needed help, and they were offering, which for a psychic was rare. He just had to…wait.

"I'm tired," John nodded. "I'm going to rest up for a while. I'll talk to you in a few hours."

"Okay son. We'll go over the details then."

John stumbled back up to his room, and sagged onto the bed. Lord, he was tired. And bereft. And, trying hard not to be, but despairing anyway.

Alan was safe. Alan made it, and that made him feel like there was a light to follow. Alan was out of the city. But the rest…

"John?" a soft voice came from the doorway. It was Danny, who had been milk-white since John's little speech downstairs. "Sorry…can I…"

"Come in," John nodded to him. Something about Danny sent off a signal that was picked up by John's big-brother node. "Something on your mind?"

Spiky haired and leather bound and more piercing than was healthy for a person, and looking like he was going to cry. Oh boy, John thought.

"What it…true what you said? I mean about the whole brain-tumour thing?"

"I should know. I live it," John replied, but he wasn't being short with the lad. "Why? Are you psychic?"

"What? No," Danny shook his head emphatically. "Dad took me through every test there ever was, too. But, you know…my Mom was."

_Ah_, John thought. "She's still around?"

Danny considered that question carefully before answering. "Sort of. That brain-tumour thingy…they can make you nuts, right?"

"Seventy five percent of psychics permanently hospitalised, you tell me," John answered, and was immediately sorry for the bluntness. It could be touchy subject. "Yeah, it can be difficult to hold onto reality at times. Some fail."

Danny stared at the ground. "Mom did, too. She didn't even _know_ she was a psychic until after she was married, you know."

"Retarded Regressive," John nodded. "I've heard of that. It's a scientific way of saying 'late bloomer'. So, it hit her all at once, yeah?"

"Yeah," Danny grimaced. "After she had me. And Dad…well, he divorced her. He didn't start hating her or anything," he blurted out hurriedly. "It wasn't like that. It's just that he didn't understand and…"

"He couldn't deal with it," John finished for him. Same sad story, told and retold a thousand times over. "Is that why he's here now?"

"I think so," Danny toed the carpet from where he'd sat on the bed. "He really loved her, but he was looking out for me and the drugs she took made Mom…erratic, you know. Like she'd leave me behind in the mall because she'd forgotten I existed, or she'd stuff me in the closet and told me to stay all the day because the 'bad things' were coming, and I'd have to wait until Dad got home to let me out. He wanted what was best for me," he added defiantly. "But he kind of felt he abandoned her, you know."

_He did_, John thought, but didn't put a voice to it. If you understand what was involved from the start, if you know all the facts, then there are ways of living a normal life. But if you get isolated, treated like a leper, don't get into the Control courses and support groups, don't have your own isolation room…well, everything just spirals. Normal people weren't told the _truth_, that was the problem. John responded with. "Well, I can tell you that it wasn't her fault. It's hard, very hard to keep yourself…balanced with thoughts pounding away at you from every side. Have you ever tried to carry on two conversations at once? It's like that, except its dozens at once, and some aren't even yours, and you can't tell which is which."

"How did you know she was a telepath?"

"Lucky guess," John replied. "Do you ever go and see her?"

"Every week, at the hospital," Danny replied. "Dad doesn't go so much anymore. She doesn't…know me anymore."

John shrugged. "Memory's always the first to go. Do you want me to say that she should have done more to save herself? Oh, don't look at me like that, we're not having a heart-to-heart like this for no reason. That's what you want to know, right? Was it her, or was it the gift."

Danny nodded miserably. "People can't tell when they look at you that you're psychic, John. You could always tell the second you looked at Mom. You act so…normal."

"Thank you. Believe me, it's harder than it looks. But you have to keep in mind that I had _help_, Danny. Both my parents were psychics and all my brothers too. My parents knew all the tricks, all the facts. They made sure we knew them too. And that…helped."

Danny didn't look comforted. "So, we should have…"

"I don't know about that. But you're not to blame, Danny," John replied firmly. "You were just a little kid. And, believe or not, I don't blame your Dad either – he did the best he could, but you've got to understand that most people aren't given the manual for this when it happens. They diagnose it and give you handful of pills and then walk you to the door and that's _it_. You're on your own after that. They don't tell you about meditation, or the need for private spaces, or the side effects or anything – you have to discover that yourself. And you don't know if the information you're looking up is real or just a lot of urban myth and propaganda dressed up in fancy words. Your Mom was shoved into a category and your Dad was out of his depth and society wasn't exactly throwing them a life preserver, if you get my meaning."

Danny thought about this. "That sucks."

John chuckled, a little grimly. "Yeah, it does. But your Dad's trying to change it, which is more than most people do."

Danny considered that too. "Okay. Thanks John."

John waved him off. "No problem. I'm glad I could help."

Danny got up to leave. "We will help you John," he said as he walked to the door. "I mean, I know they act like a church group or a knitting circle down there, but they know a _lot_ of people. We will help."

John nodded. "I know. Thanks Danny."

When the boy had left, John flopped back onto the bed, staring blindly at the ceiling.

Oh God, what was he supposed to do…?

---------------------------------------------

"Leave me alone!" Alan nearly yelled. Nearly, because the last thing we wanted was to draw attention.

He had snatched his bag back at least, and felt utterly stupid for leaving it behind even though he had had a few other things on his mind. His head was throbbing mercilessly and Andrea Valentin-Smith's presence was not helping.

And she wouldn't go _away_. "Come on Alan, just a few questions," she wheedled in that penetrating voice of hers.

"And then…?"

"And then few more," she smirked, flipping open a notebook. "Come on, tell me what the son of the multi-billionaire psychic Jeff Tracy is doing on the run? Trouble at home? Father not as clean cut and arrow straight as he appears?"

"Get lost!" Alan snapped trying to get away. The blade edge of her ambition was cutting. It was like a starving hunger.

"I'll tell security," she gloated at him. "A little kid, travelling all alone? Jeff Tracy's son? You think they'll ignore me? They're right there," she pointed to the guards standing around the station. When Alan only glared at her, she said in a loud voice "Hey guys…!"

"All right! Okay," Alan was cornered and he knew it. "Just don't, alright?"

She was grinning like a cat. "An exclusive? Or you can explain it them," she gestured to the guards.

"I'll talk to you, if that's what you mean," Alan said huffily. Damn, damn, Gordon would be laughing at him about this. "Come on." He turned to find a quiet corner where he could at least talk without being heard.

"Try to run, and I'll sic them on you," Andrea Smith-Valentin said sharply. "Right? No little tricks. I'm smarter than you – I tracked you here, didn't I?"

"You saw me jump onto the freight train, and found the next stop. I wouldn't call that tracking," Alan retorted sarcastically.

"Oooh, look who's grouchy," Andrea Smith-Valentin crooned triumphantly. "You're out of your league with me kid, I know every trick in the book. So," she continued as they settled on a bench by the ticket office where there as no one else on. "What are running from? Bad home? Abuse? Father shipping you off to military school? Eloping? Come on, and it better be good, since I'm the only thing stopping you getting caught."

"Eloping? I'm thirteen!" Alan protested. "Are you nuts?"

"Are you protesting a little too much, you think," Andrea raised a sharp eyebrow. "I've learned not to be surprised by anything I hear. Come on," she let her eyes travel over to the guards. "Time's a wastin'."

Alan was exhausted and bewildered, which is the only reason he launched his appeal with any hope. "Look, can't you just leave me alone? Let me go? Please, it's important!"

"Oh, this must be _so_ juicy if you can beg for it," Andrea's eyes lit up like lamps. "Come on, spill – thirty seconds or it's the lockup!"

They stared at each other. She opened her mouth to yell…

"The PRA attacked my family, okay?" Alan snapped angrily. This wasn't a game. "They attacked us and now they're chasing us. If the catch us, we'll disappear, or something. My whole family. Now let me go, okay?"

Andrea was gleeful. "Conspiracy theory and the attack at Washington – New York Times here I come. _Oh_ no.." she grabbed Alan's arm as he backed away from the fountain of self-centred bliss. "You're not going _anywhere_. You're my ticket! My ride to fame and Pulitzers. And if you don't give me _everything_, well, then, I guess you can tell your story to the PRA, can't you." She grinned triumphantly at his expression.

"You'd blackmail a thirteen year old?"

"Hey, you're the psychic. There's nothing wrong with _me_. Besides, I'm just trying to get to the truth. You're an anarchist, right? Your Dad funded the attack in Washington. Don't look shocked, it's not hard to figure out."

"No! We didn't have anything to do with that!" Alan protested.

"You deny involvement. Did your Dad keep you in the dark? You didn't realise what was happening until everything fell apart?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Alan gaped at her. "We didn't have anything to do with it! Nothing, not paying for it, or planning it or anything. The PRA is just using this as an excuse to get us, they've been looking for a way for years. They don't like people who get the better of them. They want us under control, in strait jackets, getting drugged up everyday so they can prove they control all psychics. We're being hunted down! If they catch us then it's all over. Our lives, everything we want, gone. My family - I'll never see them again, understand?" Alan was shaking with rage.

"So?" Andrea shrugged her cheaply clad shoulders.

"_So_?" Alan gasped. "People are being destroyed – maybe even killed. That's the _truth_. Don't you care?"

"It doesn't get readers in, that stuff. Why should I care about it? People aren't _real_ see? They all think their stories are the most tragic or the most important, but really it's just always the same old stuff. Why should I care about your family? They got themselves into it." Andrea shrugged.

Alan stared at her. She really doesn't care. In terms of empathy, she's a negative number. She's all…turned inwards. Where did he find these people? He always seemed to attract them. Maybe it was a meeting of opposites, but he doubted it.

It's not like this was the first time this had happened to him. Well, not _this_ specifically, but close. The last time was the thing with Savannah Walton.

It was still a cringe worthy subject with him, but he as getting better. It had happened at the school dance about six or seven months ago. Garstone scheduled these things regularly, as a harmless and supervised way of mixing hormone overloaded teenagers, and you had to give them point for at least trying to keep on top of it. And Garstone dances were quite a lot of fun, they'd been doing them for a long time, so they knew what worked and what didn't. Of course, there was a seniors dance and a juniors dance, they weren't stupid enough to try to mix the two. Scott, John and Virgil had been sampling senior society on one side of the school and Gordon and Alan were thrown in with the rest of the juniors in the gymnasium. One would think that the crowd of rowdy teens would be too intense for Alan, but since the crowd was mostly excited and happy it was easier to ride – they were emotions you could float on. Alan could be a total wall flower, as it were, and still get in on all the fun.

And then Savannah Walton, the popular, fashionable, totally unreachable future prom queen had walked up to him and kissed him in the middle of the dance floor. It had been his first kiss ever.

It had been a _bet_. Gordon had tried to avoid telling him afterwards, but he'd been honest with Alan when he'd asked outright. That's all. Just a stupid bet, that's what they said. Empaths were supposed to take you into a vision or something. Unlock your psychic potential. Some complete piece of bull dust.

Caught unprepared, Alan's control was suddenly shattered and the emotions started flooding in – and then flooding out. Pure sensation; pleasure, excitement, happiness, fear tension, loneliness, that was just the start of it. It had bounded and rebounded throughout the room. People lost control, lost their inhibitions – depending on who it bounced off changed the reaction. One broke another kid's arm and went at him with a broken glass. One girl nearly hung herself, rendered suicidal. A whole group tried climbing on top of the cube score board overhead on the shaky catwalk because they thought it was fun. Some had seizures. Others started destroying stuff. Couples couldn't stop kissing. Eventually, however, everyone panicked.

And in the middle of it all was Alan, getting all of it again and again.

In the end Gordon, who was more used to living with an empath and could control himself better, had picked him up and shot outside, dragging him as far as he could from every one. The seniors from the other dance had started appearing and Gordon had put them in a ring of fire until the others had showed up.

Alan didn't remember any of this. He was comatose for a week, and catatonic for the next two. The doctors, he'd been told later, had said he'd probably never come out of it.

But he had blinked one day, and looked up to see John sitting next him, in that special emotionless trance they had to use whenever Alan was sick. It had taken another week just for Alan to start talking again; his communication centres had completely shut down in self defence, rendering him autistic.

It was so…humiliating. Alan was at that age where girls become a mystery to be explored rather than a mystery to be avoided, and his first kiss had been like watching a mass murder. He was a leper at school – the other kids had learned what happened in the vicinity of an uncontrolled empath. His family had been so scared for him, they still hovered over him wherever they went, though Alan had proven how tough he was just by coming back from such a massive attack. None of his brothers had cracked a single joke about it, though it an odd way Alan might have felt better about it all if they had.

Alan had chosen to go back to school after counselling. It was…important. It was like Dad had always said, either you're a normal person dealing with a gift, or you're something else dealing with normal people. It's up to you to choose which. It became a matter of self-respect for Alan to be normal.

What his Dad had said to him while he recovered stayed with him, though. He'd sat there one night of post-trauma insomnia with his arm around his son, and had said '_it won't be this way forever. It will get better_'. Look at Mom, Scott had told him. A telepath and an empath and she had a husband and five kids. And it wasn't being psychic that killed her, either.

_It won't be this way forever_….

And here he was again, with a very Savannah-like person cutting him up.

"You're unbelievable, you…" Alan trailed off.

"You what?" Andrea challenged, smirking.

But Alan wasn't watching her anymore. She had vanished as his mind went…somewhere else. He saw…

_He saw them coming into the station, black van, padded van, chained, got him? ready to earn you keep, are you sure, are you sure, where is he…disorientated, Alan saw _himself_ as he had been several hours ago, writhing on the floor of the train, only he was looking down at himself, but not exactly down, more down and through his own eyes, both at once…found him…found him…close now…_

Blinking, Alan bent as dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him, double and triple images whirled in front of his closed eyes – two visions fighting for dominance. His…and another's…

Gasping air, he staggered and stumbled to his feet, lurching in a blind panic … somewhere…

"Hey! I warned you…"

"Close…they're close, he's close," Alan mumbled, swaying as the floor seemed to shift beneath him. "They used him to track me…they…" Alan swallowed rapidly as he gagged.

"What are you blathering about?"

Suddenly the world seemed to snap back into focus and Alan seemed to come back into the world. "I…I have to go."

"Oh, you're not pulling that old let me go or I'm going to throw up trick are you?" Andrea rolled her eyes. "You're not going anywhere. Or would you like me call the PRA? I can call the emergency hotline right now, if you like." She flourished her phone.

"They're coming! Do you understand that, you stupid cow?" Alan's emotions were all over the place and she grated him. "They're here! They're going to find me! They've got a psychic with them, and they're using him to find me. We have to go!"

"For that cow comment I should just turn you over, you little freak!" Andrea shrieked, incensed.

"You won't," Alan snapped back. "You won't because the story is everything, right? You can stop being a second rate rag writer and start actually writing stories. You can rub daddy-dearest's face in it. You're smart and everyone's stupid and here's your chance to prove it. If you let me walk away, then it's all over. Go on, call them," Alan hissed at her. "You won't get them here any faster than they're already coming. Go on! But you won't. I know."

Andrea was beside herself with fury. "How _dare _you…"

"Walking away," Alan whirled and suited action to words. He wasn't sure where that daddy-dearest stuff had come from but he knew he'd scored a point. Sometimes the information was just there.

She gripped her phone for a minute, before cursing colourfully and going after him, gripping his arm tightly as she caught up to him.

Alan glared up at her coldly. "If you want that exclusive, you're going to have to buy the tickets."

---------------------------------------------------

There was a mind, and it travelled. It scoured the streets, nothing more than an odd thought to most, a cold shiver up the spine, a brief headache, a prickling of neck hairs, in like a breeze, out like the wind. It searched, everywhere. There was nothing she couldn't find. _Nothing_.

Eventually it would hit a Tracy. Eventually, it would catch up.

----------------------------------------------------


	11. Two Sided War

Disclaimer: The author of this non-profit fic doesn't own Thunderbirds, never will own it, never has. And now is also depressed.

Warnings: Violence, mild bad language, adult and supernatural themes. Be warned, it can get graphic.

Authors Notes: Ah-hah! I actually planned to finish this a week or more ago, but I reached Grandma Tracy's bit and was completely stumped about how it should go. I compromised with something that got all the plot points in, and left it at that.

I'm not…entirely happy with how this part turned out, simply because there were some parts I could make sound right, and some other parts I left out entirely. I was trying to improve on the space between posts, so I forged ahead instead of getting bogged down. I'm reaching the climax soon.

Oh, and I'm working on my other fic 'In At The Death' as well, still.

To my reviewers and readers, keep 'em coming. And thank you for sticking around.

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Part XI – Two Sided War

_In which there is – the PRA spirals – Mr Reaming's Mission – Scott on the Wall – PRA Retirement Plan - The Big Man – Track & Trace – Follow the Smoke – One Seventeen – More Agents in Pink – Two Sided War of Attrition - Escape Attempt – Virgil's Phase One – Over the Top – Visions – the Shell Game – Caught – Reconnaissance – Kite's Cousin – Going In – Getting There – Voices – Grandma's Place – Tired – The Photo_

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"…_the incident has turned into a global debate about the psychic problem. The Miles-Keye Commission has released a press statement revealing that their preliminary findings of the PRA audit has come up with irregularities that require further investigation. Pro-psychic and anti-psychic riots have clashed in several cities. The President's staff has appealed for calm, and is waiting for the outcome of the two investigations in order to make a decision. Billionaire mogul Jeff Tracy and his family are right in the middle of the controversy between the PRA and the government because of the acquisition by Tracy Corp of a supposedly new device to block psychic powers. Mr Tracy's home was invaded by unidentified assailants yesterday, and his sons appear to be missing. He has appealed for any information on their whereabouts. The situation has been complicated further by interference from London, where the Parliament is calling for the asylum of the scientist who invented the device, whose whereabouts are also unknown… _"

Forlan switched off the television irritably. It was not a good day to be in the PRA. Already stretched to breaking point, his agents were spending more time keeping back protesters outside of Tracy Corp, and breaking up fights than they were investigating Jeff Tracy.

Not that this was an easy thing to do in the first place. Between the uncooperative attitudes of the workers within the Corp, and their own systems going haywire, the PRA were finding zip, zilch, nada, nothing. And the auditors were asking all the…difficult questions. Court clerks and investigators covered the PRA like a blanket, unhurried and unworried. They didn't have to deal with the streets, or the attack on the President, or anything else but the PRA. Their job was easy.

And Jeff Tracy! The man had more files on the PRA than a conspiracy theorist had alien photos. And they were _listening_ to him. And someone had leaked to the press about the man's sons, which hadn't helped. All the mess was out in the open for all to see, and the PRA had the grubbiest hands.

"Hey, you!" Forlan yelled over to the lanky, long haired figure fussing with the security controls.

And to top off his cake Condor Reaming was walking around and under foot!

"Oh relax, honey," he snorted, unconcernedly. "Mr Tracy asked that the back logs be opened so you agents can access the whole system," he waved the access disk. "He's cooperating."

The screens in the security room all flickered to life, showing footage from the past week all running on the screens.

Agent Forlan scowled. "Get out of here! We don't need your help! Get back into the authorised areas or I'll have you arrested!"

"Sor-_ry_," Condor held up his hands. "You're carrying to much tension, darling. You should try to relax. Have a manicure too. Those hands are disgusting."

"Out!" Agent Forlan roared.

Condor huffed and hit the 'open' switch on the doors. "Aw geez. Now look what you made me do! I broke a nail on the card slidy thing." He looked at Agent Forlan's expression. "Right, going."

Agent Forlan slammed the door shut and locked it after the man. Any minute now the HQ people were going to call and what was he supposed to say?

Condor Reaming strode out across the lobby, picking at his hand. "Mr Randall." He nodded without turning.

Randall was nonplussed. He _knew_ he didn't make any noise, but no one yet had been able to sneak up on the mysterious Mr Reaming. There was more to him than met the eye. A _lot_ more. He raised an eyebrow at the dandy man.

"Mission accomplished," Condor sighed, looking at his nails. "It was my most expansive treatment, too."

"As long as it works, Reaming," Randall grunted.

"Oh, it'll work, sweetie, it'll work. Everything important works around me."

---------------------------------------

Waking up was easier the next time. For one thing, they'd taken him out of the chair and chained him to the wall, so he could finally unclench his cramped, aching body. Any little thing was an improvement. It was blurry and grey in front of his eyes, and it took long minutes of bewildering shadows before things cleared enough to be called a scene.

Scott couldn't move his arms enough to rub his eyes, and he had to blink past the crust over his eyelids. There were hot, stinging burns across his back.

But he was awake. He looked blearily around what looked like a little back room, with a dressing table and mirror on one side, bracketed by clothing racks. The dressing room. A grimy bulb flickered in the ceiling, throwing odd shadows across the man in the chair.

He was sitting with a shotgun across his knees. He could have been tall or short, he was too hunched over to tell either way. He was a balding man with an impressive hatchet nose and slightly sunken eyes, which threw the shadows even deeper across the divots in his face.

"I imagine," the man said, almost to himself. "That it's like waking up behind a stage. Suddenly all the magic and awe is gone, and you realise you've been kidnapped by b-grade stage actors with cheap props and a bad opinion."

Scott just glared at him, whoever he was. His mind felt a bit clearer now, his overexertion was less overwhelming agony than an aching throb right between his eyes. And he was getting aware enough to be angry.

"My name is Ackleby. I need to talk to you. I need you to talk to me. It's vital if you want to get out of here."

Scott continued to glare. He wasn't falling for this bull.

"Now I realise this might be a little bit of a tough one," Ackleby shrugged. "But it's kind of important that you listen to me right now. We don't have a lot of time to…"

Ackleby stopped and looked around at the rattling. On the side of the room the reflection in the mirror blurred as the mirror shook. It was the tiniest tremor, like an echo.

Ackleby watched suspiciously before turning back to Scott. "As I was saying, we don't have ti…"

The clothing rustled of the shelves, like the ghosts of wearers. Ackleby's eyes narrowed. "That's you, isn't it?"

The shotgun came up like bar and struck Ackleby hard under the chin, sending him sprawling back, still half sitting in the chair. He was pinned.

"Very. Good. Guess," Scott rasped, eyes boring holes in his captors.

Ackleby twisted against the weight of the shot gun, squirming out of the chair awkwardly. "Now I…can tell…you…might…be a…little…upset…" he wheezed out. "But…you…must…"

"I must. _I_ must?" Scott growled, white fury filling his blood. "What do you want from us? What _more_ can you steal from us that you haven't already taken? The only thing I must do is get the hell out of here and find what's left of my family. It's up to me whether you survive it or not, Ackleby, and I am long past caring what happens to any of you!"

Scott grimaced, and suddenly the crushing shotgun was lighter, easier to push against. Ackleby heaved it aside and rolled to his knees, watching Scott who was taking heaving breaths from his incarceration against the bare wood wall.

Ackleby massaged his throat, coughing dryly. "You're good," he croaked. "I've met a lot of psychics but I don't know many who could still pull a stunt like that after the stuff you've been through. Pretty stupid, though, kiddo. You haven't got that much juice up yet."

There was a metallic scraping sound behind Ackleby, an ominous little scratching sound on the concrete. He didn't turn around, and his expression didn't change. "Ah. I seem to be at gunpoint. You're _very_ good then."

"Take off the damn chains, or I'll squeeze and let the chips fall where they may," Scott panted.

"I imagine you would," Ackleby breathed. "I imagine you'd do it and you could even free yourself. You wouldn't even think about it, 'cause you've got bigger things to lose than your morals right now. But what then? See that door?" Ackleby tilted his head toward the heavy wooden thing. "Beyond that there's a corridor, and beyond that is fifty guys with access to deadly weapons, and beyond the _next_ door there are about three hundred people who are a deadlier weapon just as a mob. And every man, woman and dumb posing teenager jack of 'em would love to see your corpse pumped full of lead and your head on a wall. You're good, son, but nobody is that good, psychic or not."

"Right. And trusting you is a better option for me," Scott twisted in the chains and Ackleby felt cold metal against his back. "I'm running out of patience Ackleby. And you're running out of time. Give me one good reason why you, who watched a man being electrocuted and watched him chained up to a wall for some genetic quirk, who has participated in who knows how many lynchings and assaults and hells know what else in the name of hatred and fear, should be trusted by _me,_ the epitome of everything you despise? God, you must think I'm stupid, Ackleby. You got no reason to help me anymore than I have reason to trust you."

"You've got me kneeling on the floor with a gun at my back," Ackleby responded. "You're right, my reasons for helping you are shrinking rapidly but I'm still trying. You got all the cards kid, so what's it going to cost you to listen for a minute?"

"What did it cost us just trying to live a normal life, Ackleby?" Scott shook his head, trying to shake loose the agony. "No, I'm not falling for this rubbish. Untie the damn chains or I'll do it myself!"

"You'd really stoop to murder?"

"It wouldn't be murder where I'll shoot."

The gun dug in again. Lower down. There was a silence. "One minute, kid. One minute, just to explain. It'll take that long to get the chains off anyway, so you can just listen while I chatter."

Scott glared at him, unmoved.

"Look," Ackleby huffed. "Look. The Lady said…the Lady said…oh cripes, what'd she…? Right, the Lady said you joked to her that when you joined the Air Force you'd be sure to land right on the rose garden because it'd take care of the aphids once and for all. Good enough?"

Scott stared at him. "_You_ know…"

"Yeah," Ackleby grimaced. "Well, know? Not really. But she knew a hell of a lot about me, I know that. I met her…" Ackleby tilted his head slightly. "Six, seven months ago? She thought I might be useful, and she gave me a way to see through my retirement plan."

Scott raised an eyebrow.  
Ackleby shrugged. "Redemption on the instalment plan. Why do you think they let me stay in here alone with you? They think I can handle you." He jerked a thumb towards himself. "Ex-PRA."

There was a shunting click as the shotgun cocked. "Not helping your case," Scott told him sharply.

"Note the 'ex' in Ex-PRA. As in finished. Stopped. Retired. That's why I can move in these circles, see? I'm useful to have around."

"How many lives did you destroy before deciding on redemption?" Scott hissed.

"Many," Ackleby said levelly. "Though if you're looking for a 'good agency gone bad' speech you're barking up the wrong tree. Have you ever seen a little kid trying to understand the emotions some paedophile empath has stirred up to get what he wants? Ever seen an arson job done by a pyro? I've actually seen people turned to ash, there wasn't even time to scream. I've seen depravities a normal person couldn't even dream of. Psychics aren't always victims."

Scott brushed this off. "Do normal people have to wear coded armbands? Are normal kids taken away from happy families because the authorities say they can't care for them properly? Do ordinary people have to _earn the right_ to be free? Yes, Ackleby, we _are_ always victims, whether you want to admit it or not. You might have seen a few less depravities if we were given a chance from the beginning." He grunted at the ex-Agent. "If you're looking for the 'yes, we're all equal' speech, you're barking up the wrong tree. You're just a spectator in this game, Ackleby. You can talk to me after you've spent your childhood been spat at and dodging rocks and doing community service for the crime of living. Now cut the freakin' philosophy and tell me what the hell you want with me!"

The glared at each other for a moment, and Ackleby looked away. "I just need you to wait. Don't…do anything for now, just sit and wait for the big man to show up. No riots, no escape attempts. They're waiting for the chance to kill you right? They'll give you opportunities to run just so they can chase you. Act out of it, don't take it, no matter how tempting. The dice are loaded against you."

Scott laughed bitterly. "And what do _I_," he replied sarcastically. "Get from this sage advise? Other than a spot on the gallows?"

"Time," Ackleby retorted. "_Think_ about it son. Would you rather face them as soon as possible or with some actual ammunition? They want you dead, and if they know I've helped you they'll want _me_ dead. But I can steer things in the right direction. I've already got that idiot Father Stewart foaming at the mouth and calling up reserves – he'll call the big man for us, and trust me, I know him. He'll want to keep you alive. He just funds these places so he can find psychics. He'll get you out of here."

Scott's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "But not to help me?"

"Would you rather be with one man who wants you alive or a mob who wants you dead? The big man will _have_ to help you out of here, understand? He won't let them have you, you'll be too useful to him. And if he thinks you're out of it, he'll act stupidly understand? He's a man with his head up his ass."

"Who is he?" Scott asked sharply.

"Better if I don't say it aloud right now."

"Well, that certainly inspires my trust," Scott snapped.

"Look son, I know you've had a hell of a day, but you might start looking past the chip on your shoulder," Ackleby said urgently. "You've got me at gunpoint. I'm talking to you, I haven't called you a freak and I'm trying my best to help you. All I can do is give you sensible advice, okay?"

"No," Scott said darkly. "That's not all you can do to me. That's not all you and people like you have ever done to me. Trusting someone because they're you're only option is no choice at all."

"Do you trust our Lady in Pink?" Ackleby asked. "She's the one who sent me running here. Dramatic gestures and daring escapes are all very well, but people usually die in the attempt. _This_ way you survive. Sometimes you need to be sneaky. That's why she called me."

"A regular snake in the grass," Scott replied flatly, but frankly Ackleby did have a very good trump card.

"She said to tell you that your father's with her agents now and she's sent others out for your brothers. She said you always thought Alan went up to the attic to talk to himself when he was little, before you went up there yourself and saw her great-great uncle. Her _late_ great-great uncle. What else do you want?"

Scott breathed out. "You're serious. You actually want me to just sit on my hands? With those people out there?"

"The big man won't let them kill you, trust me."

"Right. Trust you," Scott replied. He didn't like this at all.

Ackleby waved his hands from where he crouched. "You got a better idea? The PRA at least have procedures. They're reliably and logically violent. These people…" he shrugged eloquently.

Scott shook his head wearily. He had to get out of here. His family was out there, his brothers. He had to find them. Looking out for them was his job. He flexed his hands in the damn chains they'd strung him in. So….what?

Footsteps came down the hall.

Ackleby reacted with commendable speed. He rolled and whirled in the same movement, snatching the gun from the floor and launching to his feet with agility, neatly hooking a foot on the back on the fallen chair as he came up, flipping it upright as the door came open.

All the acolyte saw as he came in was Ackleby, upright and armed and Scott still trussed to the wall. All was as it should be.

"Mr Ackleby," he nodded to the man. "They're all gathered together. We're about to bring the filth out," he sneered in Scott's direction with malicious glee. He was a teenager, complete with acne. "Has he said anything? Father Stewart wants to know."

Ackleby shrugged. "He's gone. I've seen this before – he's overexerted. Not much of a show."

"Hah. They really are weaklings at heart," the kid spat on Scott derisively. "He'll get what's coming to him."

"I imagine he will," Ackleby replied easily.

"God, what a piece of crap," the kid said, raking over Scott's bare chested physique with a sneering arrogance that didn't quite hide the envy. "He's nothing at all, nothing." Suddenly, savagely, the kid kicked Scott in his face.

Scott grunted and sagged and willed the stars to stop spinning in front of his eyes while Ackleby spun the kid around to face. "You do that again boy, and you'll be out on your ass so fast you won't have time to blink!"

"What?" the kid was bewildered. "Why? Why does it matter?"

"This," Ackleby hissed. "Is about justice. You don't hit a prisoner in chains. He'll get what's coming to him. It's not for you to dish it out. Father Stewart would be furious if he knew that someone was corrupting the Court. You're just lucky he's not here, is all." His righteous indignation was the crazy eyed certainty of the true fanatic.

The door opened.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, they throw Bale Palton into the mix….

-----------------------------------------------

In the end, Alan and the ghastly reporter who'd attached herself to him hadn't gotten onto the passenger area of the train. Randomly choosing a likely looking engine, Alan had jumped aboard the baggage car and had been followed by Andrea, swearing all the way. Alan suddenly found himself wedged between stacked up bales of dusky carpets and stacked up brightly coloured cartons marked 'RAY'S CAMPING SUPPLIES'. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think. There was another psychic our there, tracking him. He didn't know how he knew, but the knowledge sat in his mind, immovable. And he'd caught up with commendable speed.

_He'll catch up again_.

Alan swore internally. He hated it when it came to him like this. It took all the flavour out of the future.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Andrea muttered, pushing dishevelled curls out of her face.

"You're free to get off," Alan mumbled absently.

"Fat chance, kid," Andrea huffed. "What did you mean when you said there was another psychic?"

"He's tracking us," Alan said flatly.

"He? Not she?" Andrea had gotten out her notebook. "You didn't connect with another soul?"

"What?" Alan was bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"You know, hearts and minds meeting across distances, unexpected saviour coming at the hour of need," Andrea flourished her sharp nails. "I guess not. Unless you swing, you know, that way. Do you?"

Alan stared at her. "You're mad! This isn't a…a _story_! This isn't some sappy romance book, some…some action movie! This is real life! It doesn't work that way!"

"There's no need to shout," Andrea said with an infuriating indifference. "People live their lives according to those stupid stories, why not? They believe them. That's what makes them not real. All the same stories told over and over again with the same stupid exactness."

Alan shook his head and looked worriedly out of the tiny slit of a window that lead out of the rest of the train – People were getting on board and heading up the train corridor to their compartments. He couldn't tell yet if any PRA had gotten on board, but his instincts were ringing from all directions. He turned back to Andrea. "So? That doesn't mean it's not important. Besides, if that were really true, then _you_ are just the same."

Andrea snorted derisively, fumbling for her cigarettes. "_I_ live outside the stories. I see them, I know them. I _am_ smarter," she snatched a taloned hand under Alan's chin and yanked his face sharply upward. "And _I want to know how you knew that!_"

Underneath the bubbling anger, underneath the blinding ambition, deep, deep under the thick skinned arrogance there was a tremor of uncertainty. Only slight, but it only made her fury whiter and more choking. Alan shoved her hand away as if it seared him. "Stop it," he hissed. "I just…I just _know_ okay? I don't ask for it, I don't steal it, I could go through life quite happily if I didn't know anything about you. _Very_ happily. But I don't get a _choice_." Calm down, calm down, he chanted inwardly. She's like a rock in the water. She shakes things, shatters things, imbalances everyone she comes into contact with. If _he_ lost it, it would only make _her_ worse.

Alan looked down at the floor, breathing hard. He had a few other things to worry about. "Look, just…shut up, for just a minute. I have to try something."

He had to be careful, very careful. His shaky control had not improved significantly since what had happened at the station, and more importantly he didn't know if the psychic tracking them could sense Alan the way Alan could sense him. If he could, then Alan might as well put up a neon sign over his head. He stretched….

People flooded in. Hopes, dreams, fears, joys, all of it because in the end that's what human souls were made of. There were no colours involved, but if they were, they would be more brilliant than anything on a canvas. And the colours he was looking for weren't bad, either. They were sharp, focused, no shades between shades; just clean cut and straightforward. Most people didn't go through life like that. Most people were a multicoloured cloud of stuff, these guys were strobe lights.

_They were on the train_.

Alan was sure. It wasn't quite empathy and it wasn't quite clairvoyance but it was an utter certainty. He came back, his skull ringing and his heart beating hard, into the presence of Andrea Smith-Valentin.

"What happened to you?" she asked, annoyed. "I was calling and you didn't answer! Geez, you've gone white! You're not going to blow, are you?"

Alan coughed and gagged and tried to regain some sort of footing. "We have to go," he croaked. "They're on the train. They're searching for us. They'll make it back here eventually."

"Uh huh?" Andrea blew out a stream of smoke. "And how exactly do you predict we do that? This is a train. It's like an island – there's only a limited amount of places you can run and nowhere you can hide. I mean, Christ, it's a bloody _tube_. You can go or you can go down, but eventually you'll meet them coming the other way."

Alan rubbed his face. _Think, Tracy, think_.

Another stream of smoke textured the dimness of the luggage car. There were no windows. Baggage didn't require a view. Overhead mesh racks swung and creaked as the train rocked on the tracks. There was one narrow strip of walking space between the two narrow slit doors on either end. It was a full train, and there was barely any space other than that.

Maybe space within spaces? Could they lever open some of the crates or unlock some of the bags and hide? No, probably not. Most of them were suitcases and pallets of shrink wrapped cartons and even if they could reasonably and invisibly hide inside somewhere it wasn't like they wouldn't be searched eventually – it wasn't exactly an original plan.

What else? Andrea was horrid and also right; you could go one way, or another way, but it was like trying to hide in a dead end.

"Will you put that out?" Alan waved his hands angrily through the tendrils of smoke, the acrid smell was only winding him up tighter, making his desperation more potent. "They'll smell it."

"Oh relax," Andrea snorted. "Air streams through trains from the engine to the caboose. They use the natural air current for ventilation, so it all streams towards the back," she waved her hand toward the next car down, which was another luggage car. She shrugged at his raised eyebrows. "I did some PR work for the transport commission after the gas attacks in San Francisco."

But Alan wasn't staring at her. He was staring at the smoke, which streamed out through the cracks in the narrow connecting door.

Up and back, up and back….

-----------------------------------------------

He didn't have a name, at least, his wardens didn't see him as a name, a personality, a thinking, feeling human being. At times maybe even he wasn't sure that he was one either – surely a thinking, feeling human being would have a better memory, would remember a name to own for itself. That had been buried years ago under the roaring visions and floods of information coming in through his frontal lobe. It was still _there_, mark you, but it was like trying to find a pebble in a desert.

His wardens usually called him One-Seventeen. It was the most personal thing he owned.

He didn't ask them why they dressed him in the clothes – so starchy and new that you could smell the shipping container still on them. It didn't help; as the memories flooded in though his skin, and One-Seventeen was inundated with the faces of sweat shop workers, customs officials and factory inspectors. Psychometry was a harsh, harsh gift – every touch brought the past with it in vivid detail. It was hard sometimes to even remember the present existed, the ghosts of events that were stamped onto objects were far more certain, far more real than the fluid now. The stress had made him lose his hair long ago. They had given him a cap made in Shenzhen.

But it was a very useful gift. One touch on the floor of a random train, and the quarry was there as clearly as if he had _actually_ been there. And so they had chased, touch by touch, tracking trails left in the very air.

One-Seventeen turned to one of his wardens. "He's close by," he whispered. "He touched the train door less an hour ago."

"Right," she grunted. She kept her distance. No one ever touched him. Ever.

They began working their way through the train, top to bottom. They didn't ask questions. There was no need.

On the second door he brushed, whimpering slightly, he was stunned to find the door opened to a smiling face. The face looked him _in the eye_, and had said. "Nice to see ya, kid. Oh, here, take it. For the nosebleed."

And had handed him a handkerchief. There was this tremendous and almost alien sense of _warmth_…

And One-Seventeen vanished from the present on the exasperated. "Damn, there he goes again…"

His wardens snarled the man away and commandeered his cabin. "Go," nodded a senior agent to the rest of them crowding around. "Find them, it's not like they can hide. We'll bring him back and join you then."

One-Seventeen clutched the handkerchief in his white knuckled hand, unwilling to let go.

None of the agents gave the stupid man from the cabin a second thought – which is a shame, because the phone call he was making would have been of great use to them.

"Hey Tony, it's Gino," Gino said into his cell. "Yeah, no problem bud. I got the message to him, so phase one is complete….yeah, just don't ask me to do it again, that poor kid went totally white…yeah…are you sure he'll take us up on it? Granted compared to the hell he's in right now….yeah. Well, let's hope so," Gino smiled. "We can't let our Lady in Pink down, can we?"

At the other end of the train, the Agents had gathered at the entrance of the baggage car, queuing out into the passenger car since there wasn't much space.

The agents tracked the smell of the smoke.

"I tell you, there's _someone_ hiding in the luggage car."

"How do you know it's not just a smoker on the other car?"

The young agent tapped the No Smoking sign.

"Fine. Alright people, go in _guns up but no shooting_. We want him alive, if possible. A few of you stay out here and watch for any weird behaviour. Any funny stuff, any irrational reactions, and you _shoot to kill_. Understand?"

They went in. They ferreted around, cracked open crates, ripped apart baggage. All they found was an old, still smouldering butt end, tucked forlornly into the most inaccessible corner.

------------------------------------------

When the doors opened, Virgil was prepared.

The others had warned him about this, in between bouts of pain-ridden sleep and stretches of trying to force his power out past the helmet, which rendered him curled up on the floor, willing to do anything to make the pain stop.

There was Chuckles, of course, who was the quiet member of the next cell. He was someone to talk to. Across from him there was Anna, from Pittsburgh, above was Adam from some unpronounceable town in Mexico, To the left and down there was Kylie, a grandmother of four, perhaps five she said, because when she'd been snatched she was sure her daughter was keeping a secret. Telepath's tend to know.

And there was Roger, Turlouse, LingLing, Natalie, Yamen, dotted about the place. They were the ones who regularly, or at least could, talk. The other's didn't bother, or were so far gone they couldn't. There was a constant murmur in the background of raving and mumbles.

They had warned him – they do this to all the new ones, they said. They simulate a fault or a surge, shut down the generator, leave the door open, just to see what you do. People have died trying to escape, they said. Best not to try it. They'll be waiting for you to try.

It's like the thing with Virgil's necklace. The Major kept something of yours, some little trinket. He would dangle it in front of you for a few days or weeks, and then, just as everything started to sink in and the pain became chronic, he would destroy it, lose it, throw it away right in front of you. Kylie had lost a wedding ring that way – a ten generation heirloom callously dropped through the drains – because the Major needed everyone to know who the boss was.

But the war of attrition being played in the prison was not one-sided. Anna could render the security cameras and microphones inert and no guard would agree to be in the same room as a bunch of angry psychics who could do damage enough before the Psy-blocker kicked in. It was hard to keep tabs on them. But you had to watch out, they said. There were people listening in the cells that were passing it on to the guards. The _Loyals_. Psychics working for the PRA. Some of them wanted to, others were cornered into it.

Watch what you say, they had said. Watch what you think. Mostly they just leave us here to stare at the walls.

Virgil pulled himself to his feet when the lights went out, and clung to wall until the pins and needles and cramps faded. A few shaky steps got him to the door, and he wrenched it open.

"Aw, Virgil, d-don't do it!" Adam called down. They all slurred and stuttered and twitched. That was a long term affect of wearing the Psy-blocker.

"An-na," Chuckles said quickly.

"No, don't," Virgil waved a hand. "I want to see what they'll do to."

"You're _nuts_," Anna called from her cell.

"Not y-et, I think," Chuckles said from his cell. Virgil peered in , but in the pitch gloom, he couldn't see the kindly old man's face. "Get go-ing, young man."

Virgil didn't waste time. In the hours he'd slumped in that hellish cell, he's decided he didn't have time to waste. Down the catwalk, down the stairs and into the pit, and toward the elevator, which according to the others was the only way out.

Alarms began to sound as the lights were turned back on, and Virgil made it to the elevator. He punched in the code quickly. Kylie had told him; 1-1-4-5-7-8. There wasn't much that could be hidden in a prison of psychics.

The doors opened, but Virgil hadn't called the car – it opened to an empty shaft. He gripped a cable and hauled himself upward. He'd always enjoyed the rope-climb in gym, although right now his arms and shoulders screamed and his body protested. He only had to make it up a level, which is just as well because the elevator car was dropping down, bringing the guards. Virgil reached for the maintenance switch, and hauled himself in as the car flashed by.

They were making it easy, but maybe that was the point. It wasn't any fun if there wasn't a chase. Virgil headed down the corridor at a jog as the alarms flashed around him. No windows, only vents, so he must still be under the ground. He headed for the stairs.

Unfortunately he met guards coming out of the stair well. Virgil whirled as the door open and lunged for the fire extinguisher, the closest thing to a weapon he had, and swung it desperately as one of them reached for his belt. There was a blinding, white flash of pain as his helmet was turned up, but he still had enough momentum to catch the man on the side of the head as he keeled over. The pain diminished just enough for him to fumble for the pin and the other agent got a face full fire retardant chemicals. Coughing and swearing, she staggered and was knocked down by Virgil's desperate fist coming up to meet her. Virgil snatched the remote from her belt as he darted into the stairwell and headed upwards, head pounding an equal beat with his heart.

It wasn't long before he was out of breath. He made it up two storeys of risers before fleeing the stairs as security poured onto it.  
He ran through around a partitioned office. There was nothing but big rooms in this place, divided up into small spaces. Now, there were windows.

And workers. There were screams and yells as Virgil burst through, but he wasn't stopping for anything. Wheezing, his legs screaming, he made his way to a random corridor, and circled around, trying to find more stairs.

He lunged into a door as black clad guards popped up in his corridor.

He walked right into the blow. The pole clanged off his helmet, but the concussive strike was enough to send him to the floor. Then the pure ocean of white pain swallowed him up.

"Clever," Major Corman gloated. "You know, you gave us quite a run for our money, boy? We haven't had this much fun in months, right guys?"

He nudged the groaning Virgil with his toe. The pain was making him writhe on the floor.

"But running into my office? Not very smart, boy," Major Corman bent down over Virgil, pendant dangling around his thick neck next to the dog tags. "Huh. Well, we have a special treatment for dumb rich boys." He kicked Virgil head in the rins. "On your feet boy!"

It took several falls and kicks and drags and in the end Major brought out his favourite tool – the cattle prod – to get him moving. By the time Virgil was back down to the pit, he was writhing and hurting and burning. He wondered, distantly, when the race would start; but no, they had something different in mind for him.

Chains were brought. Virgil was cuffed into a curled position, twisted up and hurt, and hung up on the chains. The Major made a speech. Virgil couldn't hear most of it through the roaring in his ears, but it was something about freedom and rule playing and restrictions of food and medication, met with cries and groans.

"Hear that, prince?" the Major hissed in his ear. "They're all going to suffer for your attitude. They're going to suffer because of you. But not as much as you."

And suddenly Virgil was swung upside down, swinging in front of the guards like a pendulum. They laughed and jeered and howled. The Major flourished his prod a couple of times, and gave him a few shots in the ribs, which had Virgil choking and coughing up bile. He just managed to tilt his head to clear his throat. He must have looked disgusting. He was sure his shoulders were separating.

Eventually, they left. Eventually, the pain became just enough for him to listen to the voices around.

"Geez, they went all ou-ou-out on 'im."

"Whaddya expect? We warned him what they did to first timers, didn't we? I told him, they love stringing people up."

"He may have made it further if rat-boy hadn't blabbed."

"Hey, why blame me? He was going to get caught anyway, but this way I get TV privileges."

"You make me sick, Roger, you really d-do."

"We-ll," Chuckles voice emerged from the gloom as Virgil's gentle spin turned him towards those cells. "He wa-nted to see wh-at th-th-they'd do. I wo-nder what he fou-nd?"

"I f'nd," Virgil mumbled. "I f'nd 't that C-Corm'n sligh'ly less intellgen' than I am."

It was a quality you should hope for in a warden. He was exactly where he expected to end up. Exactly right.

When his brain stopped trying to break out of his skull, he'd try for phase two.

------------------------------------------------------------

"This is insane! You're insane! This is insane!"

Alan would have rolled his eyes, had they not been watering profusely in the wind. "You're a writer, aren't you? Could you at least try to use a few different words?"

A string of very explicit curses met his retort as Andrea scraped along the metal in her rumpled cheap suit and her three inch heels, the words were snatched away in the gale.

They were climbing across the train roof, couched low over the centre while the train gathered express momentum. "We're on _top_ of a freakin' _train_!" she shrieked.  
"Right," Alan muttered, crawling carefully forwards. Adrenaline had made his fingertips super sensitive and the vibrating metal wound the tension up inside of him. You _could_ ride on the top of a train. Train surfers and third world country folk the world over knew it. It was just a really stupid thing to do.

Nothing clever would have worked.

Andrea's venomous muttering and blinding terror rage was distracting and nauseating. And to top it off, ahead of him there was a figure standing. It whispered _help me_ over the wind, and then vanished on a blink from Alan. Oh no, not now, Alan groaned inside. I'm on top of a damn _train_, I can't deal with a vision.

_One-Seventeen, One-Seventeen, One-Seventeen_...the train shunting turned into words for an instant, then back again. Disorientated, Alan shook his head, and nearly dislodged himself. Digging his fingertips into the frail grip provided by the roof ridges, Alan clung like a limpet for a moment until the dizziness became manageable. He crawled forward as the train rocked over rail joints. His probing hands found the end of the car, and with some white-knuckled manoeuvring, his dragged himself across the gap.

He twisted around to see Andrea drag herself up to the edge. "Okay! We got over! Let's get the hell down!"

"Next car!" Alan yelled back.

"What?" Andrea bellowed back, disbelieving. "Come on, you're kidding me!"

"Not here! They'll see us!" Alan shook his head.

"There's nothing stopping me from getting down here! They're not after me! Nothing at all, you hear?" Andrea bellowed.

"Did you know my Dad sued the PRA once? Successfully? The only psychic ever to do it! It was all hushed up, part of the settlement!" Alan grinned as he dangled the bait. "Follow me if you want to know why!"

He turned his began crawling forward again. He smirked to himself as he felt Andrea's incoherent anger as she hauled herself, swearing, over the gap.

A helicopter roared over Alan's head, so real and so close that he ducked and flinched instinctively. But when he looked around, the sky was clear. He felt like banging his pounding head into the metal. Another one…?

They slipped and slid. As the train turned a bend, they slid to the outside curve, right on the edge of the already convex train top. Andrea wouldn't shut up the whole way along, and Alan's arms were aching with the tension he used to maintain his adrenaline soaked grip. Half blinded by the wind blowing in the face, head spinning and weaving through visions, Alan's questing fingers finally reached the lip of the next car.

Below, the agents searched futilely inside a big tube, from which there was no escape.

At least, that's how it looked from the inside.

Slithering down through the gap, Alan landed on the coupling awkwardly and nearly overbalanced over the guard rail. Rubbing his shoulders, he glanced back into the car they'd climbed over, and saw the corridor was clogged with PRA agents. Yelping, Alan dove into the next car up as three inch spikes descended from above and crouched down low as he hurried up the corridor. Ahead of him a train official was making his way down the train, toward the PRA agents. Alan checked doors until he found an empty one and dove inside.

There was a muffled conversation where Alan heard Andrea's strident tones, and the clipping noises of her heels as she ran down the corridor. She slid the door open. She was never an immaculate woman, but now she looked like she was on the tail end of a bender. Her hair curled up like medusa snakes all around her head, her clothes were completely disarranged and her make-up was smudged. "I'm going to _kill_ you, kid," she growled. "I'm going to _kill_ you!"

Alan slumped against the cabin wall wearily, exhausted and hurting. "Fine. But make it quick and painless. Don't get angry at me," he shrugged as she shot him a filthy glare. "You wanted to come along on this ride."

Andrea snarled at him, and huffily took a seat. "What you've got better be worth a Pulitzer, kid, because one yell from me and they've got you gift-wrapped. Come on, spill."

"Right now?" Alan asked. He'd had about one minute to get his hammering heart back down to a safe level.

"_Right_ now," Andrea fished out a slightly crumpled looking notepad out. "You said your father sued the PRA? How much did he get?"

"Nothing. We got paid in community services points."

"What, those citizenship things?" Andrea asked. "You never had to do your quota?"

"None of us did," Alan sighed. He looked out of the window, lost in a tangled memory. "Scott and John were of age, and had just started, but after the settlement they didn't have to do it anymore."

"_None_ of you?" Andrea persisted. "I thought there was no way to get out of it! Your father must have had a doozy on them!"

Alan shrugged.

"So?" Andrea prompted. "Come on kid, you're one scream away from the hospitality of the PRA."

Alan sighed. "I don't remember much, okay? I was nine, and a lot of it got blocked out. Some Senator or something had the PRA bring me and my brother John in so we could find his kids. They'd been snatched by someone….someone bad."

_Howling, whirling emotions spun in around a sink of pure malice…the smell of blood, blood, blood, everywhere, the eerie little whine of the camera…_

Alan's hands went white knuckled on the seat. Sometimes the memories snuck up on him out of nowhere, even though they were a confused mess most of the time. There was only so much assault a mind could take before getting tangled up and distorted.

"We found them," Alan frowned at the whited out memories. "They dumped us in some sleazy motel to thank us."

He didn't remember that part, exactly. He remembered the feel of water and the tremendous sense of relief realising the others had arrived after that nightmarish twelve hours. But it was blurred in his mind, and his family had wanted to keep it that way.

"Oooh, juicy," Andrea was scribbling this down. "So, your father probably doesn't like the government much."

"Not really," Alan replied coldly. "Are we back on this again? This is stupid. We didn't have anything to do with those stupid attacks."

"Well right now, kiddo, you're Dad's the prime suspect. Who else is there? It makes for a story people can get there teeth into in any case."

Alan shook his head in disbelief. "Your unbelievable. You really are. You walk through life like the whole universe is against you, except it's the other way around. You don't care about people because you're angry they don't care about you. You've probably never had a friend in your life."

Andrea sneered at him. "Do you want me to get on the couch and blubber about my childhood?"

Alan raised an eyebrow. "I know I'm right. That's what you get for following an empath around."

The slap knocked him against the window but it still wasn't as hard as the raw anger. "How _dare_ you! You think that just because you can see things other can't see that you're better than us?"

Alan rubbed his cheek. "That's what most people think of us, sure. What? Do you expect me to be sorry? Psychic's are mostly good, decent people, just like everyone else. _You_ were willing to blackmail a minor. How do you think that'll play in the press room?"  
Andrea's face twisted up like she'd bitten a lemon. "Oh, sure, You're a real wiseass, kid. Just remember that at my word you…"

"Yeah, yeah," Alan's face swung towards the door. "But you still want the big story, so I doubt whether you'll blow it just yet. Besides, my Dad can pay you whatever charge you like for helping me….are you ready?"

"For what?" Andrea hissed, incensed but caught.

"We're about to play the shell game. They're not after you, so distract them for a minute while I slip into the next cabin."

Alan darted out into the corridor at the sound of the end door sliding open came to him. Lunging for the opposite door, Andrea let out a startled cry and jumped after her meal-ticket. She was just in time to distract the PRA agent coming up the train, checking the cabin doors along the way. They had just reached the two cabins right next to Andrea's and Alan's. One reached for Alan's door…

"What _are_ you doing?" Andrea demanded, voice as penetrating as ever.

"Sorry ma'am," one of the agents flashed his badge. "We're looking for a stowaway."

Andrea raised an eyebrow. Behind the agents, the cabin Alan had ducked into opened a wary fraction. Alan sidled out and scurried into the cabin behind them – one already checked – as Andrea continued. "The PRA? You mean there's a rogue psychic on this train?"

The agents looked awkward. "I'm afraid I can't release that information ma'am. If you could just get back in your seat…"

It took a while to shake Andrea. It always did.

Alan waited until they had checked each of the cabins before emerging from his. Andrea was still standing in her cabin. "You got a set of brass ones on you, kid, I'll give you that," Andrea said grudgingly. "Now what?"

"Now we follow them," Alan replied. "They'll be back, trust me. It's better if we know where they are."

"What about my story?"

"I think it might be better if we wait until we're not being chased by guys with guns, don't you?"

The shadowed the agents down the train, keeping a car of space between them. They followed them to the dining car, which was half full for lunch – and half taken up with agents. They peered through the window, crouched down.

They were arguing and shouting. They were pouring over an internal map of the train, scratching lines and making marks. Occasionally they would turn to a hunched up figure that had been stuck in a chair of its own. Alan bent forward as his lips moved.

The figure looked up, and saw him. Alan ducked. Cursing, he said "We have to get back down the train."

"Oh no, I'm not doing that again!"

"You don't have to!" Alan turned, and fled.

Get back to the luggage car, he thought to himself. They've checked it. He could hunker in there for a while, get off at the next station.

He didn't slow down as he felt the footsteps appear behind him. Forget getting of at the station, get off the train _now_. He sped up, bursting through the doors and dodging around conductors and other passengers. He was exhausted, and couldn't possibly reach his normal fleetness of foot.

The footsteps were getting closer. Get to the back, get to the back….he was right at the luggage car when they caught him, tackling him into a wall, smashing him into it. Cuffed tightly, he was dragged back through the train. Alan squirmed in their grip, until one of them back handed. He still struggled every step of the way back to the dining car, which had been cleared out by the agents, commandeered from the train officials, who were being cowed back by a senior agent.

He looked despondently at the emaciated, bald figure, who stared back with dull eyes. His eyes flickered past Alan sheepishly.

There, quite calmly smoking a cigarette, was Andrea Smith-Valentin. "Sorry kid," she huffed. "But they had a better offer – I get the exclusive to sell to the _Times_."

Alan gaped at her. "You…"

"Get them into the cabin, out of sight," the senior agent ordered.

Andrea gave him a little wave as Alan was hauled out, alongside One-Seventeen. Her grin evaporated however, when another agent got a cuff around her wrist. "What? What are you doing?"

"You're a material witness," the agent said, strapping her other wrist and stealing the cigarette. Andrea opened her mouth for an incensed shriek, but was cut off.

"Take them away."

--------------------------------------------------

Gordon bit his lip thoughtfully. Ahead of him, Seredo Hospital rose in an ugly block, surrounded by concrete yards and a mesh fence. It seemed more a prison that a place of healing. The wide glass doors and ambulance bays were the only clues.

Gordon had been sitting and staring at it for a long time. He'd curled up in an uncomfortable corner for an uncomfortable sleep in the morning after the meeting with Kite. He stumbled out of there with a lot to think about, and it hadn't been a restful sleep.

He idly chewed on a candy bar as he watched the place from the park. The others were gathering, but he'd come early to watch and to learn.

There were guards. There were cameras. There was absolutely no way to get in without someone noticing. And what do you want to bet their silent alarm wire went straight to the local PRA? Right.

_Alan was okay_.

He got on the train, he knew his brother's gentle touch on things. As for the rest of them, Kite said he was still collecting information. Their networks were slow with all the PRA on the streets.

And Gordon was stuck. Most of the people in the shanty town couldn't stand him, and only Kite's grace was keeping him from getting strung up in front of the nearest PRA branch office. Even now he was surrounded by watchful, distrustful eyes. They were waiting for the chance to get him, Kite or not. Janet was just the tip of the iceberg.

Speak of the devil. She appeared, dressed heavily for such warm weather. Jack was in tow and…

"What's she doing here?" Gordon asked in alarm. Kite's dark eyed cousin watched him diffidently from where she perched on Janet's hip.

"Stacy doesn't leave Kite's side," Janet explained stiffly.

"He's not serious," Gordon asked in disbelief. "_She's_ not coming, is she?"

"If Kite goes away, she starts having episodes," Janet snapped. "Clearly you don't know how empathy works."

"Scowl a bit more Janet," Gordon retorted calmly. "People will stop noticing us casing the place, what with your heavy coat and all."

To Janet's utter bewilderment, Jack chuckled. "You're funny."

"Laugh a minute," Janet snarled. She shifted her weight. "Here, take her for a minute."

Stacy was settled silently onto his lap. When she touched him, he felt a swirling, tangled mess of emotions carefully probing and searching in a tiny, tiny way.

You expect this to rattle me? Gordon thought. I've shared a room with an empath my whole life. He focused on a repertoire of happy memories and Stacy reacted with a rare smile.

Janet was shocked. "How did you…?"

"Jack is family, he's used to you. You can't hurt him," Gordon dandled the little girl, smiling. "But you have to control yourself around empaths. I was raised by one and with one. I may be a rich boy," Gordon shrugged. "But I know what I'm doing. And you better put some faith in that, Janet, if you really expect to pull this off."

Jack had sat down to make faces at Stacy. "It'll be okay. Kite is very good. He's done this before, you know."

"You mean other than the chancellor's car," Gordon snorted. Then he scowled. "You're serious, aren't you? He's done stuff like this before?"

Jack shrugged. "He…"

"Of course he has," Janet cut in quickly. "He finds people, rescues them, fights the PRA, all that stuff. He's helped so many people. He didn't have anyone to help him, either. His parents don't want to know him and the school used keep him down and humiliate him. He's done so much for so many. You don't have any right to judge him. You haven't done half of what he's accomplished." She added defiantly.

Gordon shook his head. What he wanted to say was, lady, I _go_ to the same school he went to. The only thing they had a problem with was disruption and destruction. They lack a sense of humour but they're not the Spanish Inquisition. And it's expensive, so his parents must not hate him that much. And he thinks that this is a militia, not a rag tag bunch of desperates. He thinks declaring war will be a great symbol instead of a quick way to die. He thinks he can win this.

And he's stuck me right in the middle of it, because ironically it's the safest place I can be.

This sucks.

Jack was fidgeting worriedly. "Janie," he asked plaintively. "Kite's not going to _hurt_ any of the people in there, is he? They're sick and hurt."

Janet smiled reassuringly. "It's okay Jack. Kite doesn't want to kill anyone, and he certainly won't attack anyone in their beds."

"Right," Gordon grunted gloomily. "Because it's going to be so easy to control things once the fire is flying."

"We have our ways, Tracy," Kite materialised. A few of them were casually strolling in to the main reception, inside plants for when the action started. More where gathering around the grounds, moving slowly towards the building. They had that look in their eyes. They were saying; here, we make our stand.

"No rest for the wicked," Kite smirked. He took the silver lighter off his lieutenant. "Ready to go?"

Janet withdrew the home made smoke bombs from under her coat.

"Let's go."

-------------------------------------------------------

"Not much further now, John." Dale called from the front seat.

John sighed in relief. He wedged into the back of a station wagon was no joke for someone as tall as him. Danny turned his head slightly to grin at him from the back seat. "Comfy?"

"You're funny," John grunted. He shifted slightly to relieve an anonymous cramp.

It took some time to get to wherever it was they were going. They had to circumvent security check points and central districts, in order to keep away from the PRA. Dale did this with an expertise that suggested he'd had practice. All over the streets the network's members spread out on bikes and in cars, keeping a weather eye for spot checks.

So they would go to these…these rogue broadcasters, as near as John understood it, and do their thing, and then what?

John didn't like to say it and certainly didn't show it, but a part of him was screaming _what the hell are you doing? You're brothers are out there maybe dying and you're going to be a celebrity! This is insane! You have to do something!_

But then a quieter part of him was saying: _What else can you do? Run headlong into the PRA or the hate groups and demand truth, justice and freedom? Suicidal much? This is real life, it doesn't work doing it that way…_

…_it should._

John sighed. He always believed so firmly in the truth. He had to tell the truth. Then, at the very least, people would remember what had happened to the Tracy family…

Nothing's going to _happen_, John. Nothing.

_They're going to **get**__you, John Tracy._

John blinked. He shook his head. "Did you say something?"

Danny turned towards him slightly. "Nope. Why?"

John gave a puzzled frown. "Never mind."

He settled back. It was probably just his own head. It's not like it hadn't turned on him before.

They went onwards, an uneasy feeling settling into John's gut.

-------------------------------------------

Mr Fenill wasn't a saint, nor a great leader, nor a messiah. He _was_ very good and a very bad job, and when push came to shove not actually evil. Believe it or not, he did join the PRA to help people, not to hurt them.

He really didn't deserve this.

"You're rude, you're insolent, you're arrogant and on top of all that, you're _late_!"

"We're here to execute a…" Mr Fenill began, fighting against an instinct to take a step back.  
A skinny finger stabbed him in the chest. "I know what you're here to do, young man! And it doesn't improve my opinion of you in any way, not that it could get any worse. Come in _not just like that wipe your feet for Heaven's sake_ and get on with it!" Grandma Tracy stepped back to admit them into the farmhouse.

Mr Fenill dispatched the agents throughout the quaint old home and a second group out to the outer buildings, barns, sheds, and a derelict old stable. They were armed with sophisticated scanners and searchers.

Mr Fenill looked over at their target. A small woman, but she _walked_ tall, so you'd never know. She has the tanned and weathered look of a person who's spent the majority of their life out of doors. Her face was set in a scowl that was made fiercer by the pulled back grey haired bun, but you could see by her wrinkles that she laughed a lot.

He came under the focus of a hawk like glare. "Well? Don't you have something to do, or are you just here as a walking ornament?"

Mr Fenill shook his head. "I would thank you to remain civil, ma'am. If you are harbouring the man we're looking for, you are in serious trouble."

"I don't need your thank you's and I am being quite as civil as you deserve, boy," Grandma Tracy strode away, not even slightly disconcerted by the coldness in his tone. "You came to my home, you'll take it as it comes. Tea?"

"What?" Mr Fenill was taken aback.

"Tea, tea! Are you deaf? If we are going to talk, I plan to be comfortable."

She stalked to the table and sat down. It was set as a smorgasbord for …eight, nine, ten…Mr Fenill's eyes narrowed.

Someone had tipped the old crone off! I _knew_ those yokels down in the town were leading us in circles!

Mr Fenill was tired. He was hungry. He was rumpled and smelt bad and he was running on coffee and frustration. It had been a long flight full of agents who wouldn't stop cracking jokes about the Tracy's escapes, and another chunk of hours just trying to find this bloody place and now…

He sat down, trying to relieve the tension in his back. Something familiar looking flashed in front of his eyes, and he reached out to snag the thin wrist as it withdrew from placing the cup and saucer.

An armband? She was a psychic? He ran an expert eye over the code. Oh for crying out loud…a nauscoper? Who the hell had done the advance work for this little foray?  
"And the penny drops," Grandma Tracy's smile was grim.

"It only proves that this would be the perfect place to hide him," Mr Fenill let her go.

"Oh, take pity on a poor, lonely old woman, kind sir," Grandma's acid tone could have stripped paint. "That's what you want, isn't it? Gifted folk grovelling at your feet?"

"What I want, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill retorted calmly. "Is not to have to look at another poor kid who's had his head messed with by some paedophile with a psychic twist. Or haul another body bag out of a burning building because a pyro took offence. I _tired_ of having to deal with the fallout, Mrs Tracy, of people who are barely stable enough to walk four steps let alone handle other people's thoughts or emotions."

"Well. Doesn't that just make us a pair?" Grandma Tracy poured milk primly. "I've dealt with your lot for more years than you've had on this earth, Agent Fenill. There is no one more tired than I of dealing with it – getting put down, getting isolated, getting treated as if I was contagious. I'm tired of having to explain to my tiny son and my tiny grandchildren why the other children throw rocks at them. Why, when our house is violated and out things destroyed why other people get police officers and we just get to grin and bear it. I'm _tired_ of having to go through life like a mouse in a room full of cats. I've had a lot more time to be tired than you, Mr Fenill. I suspect I'll be tired until I die."

Grandma Tracy's glare hit him like a Morningstar. "I've served this land and the people here faithfully and honestly all my life Mr Fenill. My reward – hah, _reward_ – has been to look into my son's face and tell him that it's never going to be right or fair for him. Don't you talk to me about being tired."

"Is he here?" Mr Fenill asked flatly.

"No."

"And if he was here?"

"Guess, Mr Fenill," Grandma Tracy took a dainty sip of tea. "Tell your men they can have a bite. I plan to be a better person than you, even if it is sickening."

Mr Fenill stared at her. "You do know we can arrest you, don't you?"

"Just so, Mr Fenill," Grandma replied, unruffled.

"Your son is charged with serious crimes, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill persisted. "Murder, terrorism, treason. All you are guilty of right now is being a good mother and aiding a fugitive on his behalf. If you cooperate we will make sure your family isn't harmed. Your younger grandsons may be returned into your care. They would all be safe and alive, and you would be able to…"

The slap was not ladylike. It was a flat handed punch of a woman who'd raised boys into men. Mr Fenill was sent to the floor.

"You threaten me with _that_?" Grandma's face was white with fury. "You dangle my family's lives in front of me like a worm on a hook, you tell me I might get _some_ of them back? How dare you! How _dare_ you say that in this place, to me! What reason have you to take them from me? What have they done that you can prove?"

Mr Fenill slowly got to his feet, one hand rubbing his jaw. The woman had an arm like a lead pipe. "We think they had something to do with the attacks in Washington, Mrs Tracy. Or are you going to tell me you condone that?"

"Of course not," Grandma waved a dismissive hand. "Violence never solved anything. You didn't answer me. What can you _prove_?"

Mr Fenill walked around the room, peering across the many, many photos stuck up everywhere. "Jeff Tracy's hatred of the PRA is legendary, he's rich, and he has sons that would do anything he asked. They're all powerful psychics. If anyone could do it, would do it, it would be him."

"You consider that proof?" Grandma's eyebrows rose.

"In our business, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill replied. "We deal with people who don't leave proof. Supposition is all we have to act on."

"So, you don't need a reason to arrest people?" Grandma summed up acerbically.

"We act under the law, Mrs Tracy, whether you like it or not," Mr Fenill was still peering at the photos. "We start on supposition, we prosecute with evidence. No, I can't prove it, yet. But we're getting there."

"Sounds like you started with an answer and are trying to find the question," Grandma threw up her hands. "Do you hear yourself? Say it clear; young man _do you have any evidence at all_?"

Mr Fenill turned to look at her. "No."

"Then why do you persist?"

"There's no one else."

"Have you looked for anyone else?"

Mr Fenill frowned. "There is no one."

"Is that the same as 'no'? Tell me boy, did you find the Tracy's on your own, or were you ordered to? Did you ever ask why?"

Mr Fenill's jaw moved slightly. "I'm not in the habit of questioning my orders, Mrs Tracy."

"Yes, you might actually have to think for a change," Grandma retorted. "Tell me something, young man. Do you hate psychics?"

Mr Fenill was taken aback. No one had ever asked him that fairly before. Shouted it, screamed, accused it, but never asked it. "No. Just the rogue ones."

"You don't want to have them all in prisons? Really?"

"No," Mr Fenill shook his head. "Psychics have helped us. I'm not blind. They can be useful, skilled people. But they have to act under the law – we can't make special allowances for them."

"Just so. So _think_ about it, young man. Forget the orders – would you have even thought of the Tracy's if they hadn't directed you? No evidence, no warning, nothing but a lot of supposition and bull dust? Doesn't that offend you?"

"I'm doing my job, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill said abruptly.

"Seems to me like your taking orders, Agent Fenill," Grandma replied succinctly. "It's not the same thing." She gave him a piercing look. "You really don't know what you're doing here, do you? You really don't."

Mr Fenill glared at her. There was something about the old woman – she forced you to think sideways to what you normally did. She made all your proudest points seem stupid, and more than that, she made _you _think they were stupid. The uneasiness he's been putting in a blind spot since the raid was coming back to the surface.

He turned his eyes away from her, trying not to be angry. He was in the middle of nowhere, and he didn't know why and it wasn't helping his disposition any having some old hag put her finger straight on it not ten minutes after meeting him.

And, just like that, it all got worse.

He saw the photo.

---------------------------------------------

End Part XI


	12. Uncut, Uncensored & Unamused

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds is owned by the Anderson and their various hangers-on. This is non-profit work which doesn't belong to the author of it.

Warnings: Violence, mild coarse language, adult themes

Authors Notes: Arrrggg! This took _so_ long! Writers block and exhaustion are my only excuses. My office has been moving premises, so I've been handling a heavy workload plus packing duties and then unpacking duties and I've been dead on my feet the last two weeks. And to top _that _off, I wrote two lines and then started hating what I wrote. It was awful. Don't fear, my other fics are still in the works, I just like to do them in order.

I'll try to do better.

Please give me reviews!

-----------------------------------------

Part XII – Uncut, Uncensored and Unamused

_In which there is – Leaving Kansas – Attack! – Stop the World – Damned if You Do – Virgil's Phase Two – The Right Reasons – Three Ring Circus – John Tracy, Uncut, Uncensored and Unamused – Unseen Watcher – Ambush – Palton's Offer – Futility of Fate – Mr Tracy & the President – Ready to Go_

-----------------------------------------

"Sir, the scanners were definitely malfunctioning. They're working fine now sir," the young agent brandished it. "They _must_ have been there sir!"

Mister Fenill stared out into the rolling dust. "So?" he replied absently.

"So?" the agent echoed. "We should go back, sir! We'll wait for them to come out, catch them in the act!"

Mister Fenill kept staring at the dust as if he had never seen it before. Their convoy of cars was swimming in a cloud of it, speeding through the hot Kansas landscape.

"Sir?"

"Our warrant only covered the search and reasonable suspicion. Machines breaking down? The scanners are part of network hookups, I'm surprised you're getting them to work right here. It isn't reasonable suspicion; not that would hold up in a court, and we didn't find anything. There's nothing else we can do."

"But…"

"I'm still in charge of this investigation, if you would be so kind as to remember."

It was strangely liberating to make such a dangerous decision, but Mr Fenill had good reason to believe that no one would realise he made it.

He was giving up on this. However it unfolded, it would unfold without him. Maybe it would unfold as it should.

--------------------------------------------

The plan was simple. These were not trained soldiers; they were not even, in a very specialised sense, fit and healthy, and their window of opportunity was small so there was no time for a solid strategy.

Jack took Stacy on his back, and Gordon felt slightly more comfortable with that. Jack was a powerful empath, near to Alan's high level, and he could protect Stacy from any extra stress, not to mention stray bullets.

The shanty towners moved in like a pack, going from a formless trickle through the doors to an offensive wall around the front and the parking lot at the rear. They closed in on the entrances and exits, and the main force headed for the main door.

Before security could fathom just what this sudden crowd was actually doing, there was an explosion. The heavy smoke bombs spun like Catherine Wheels, whirring across the rough pavement with eerie skitters, throwing up foul smog. Security guards were coming out, drawing their guns, but suddenly were face planted into the road by unseen forces. The pinner, an Ethiopian migrant called Ivy, knelt in skirts in the mist, flanked on either side by Davis and Kite. Gordon hung back, watching warily, sticking close to Jack, blinking past his streaming eyes. Stupid! Stupid! It looked effective and efficient when SWAT guys did it, but they had masks!

But suddenly the smoke swirled away, like it was stirred with a giant hand. The shanty towners were in the clear centre and the guards still fumbling around in the smoke. Whatever Janet had made those things out of, they worked like a charm. It was pea soup out there, if you liked it smoky.

Janet may not be a psychic, but she wasn't a pushover either. She crouched near the edge of the smoky din, watching hawk like for the telltale shadow of an unpinned guard, fighting the vortex. She laid him out with a sharp uppercut, assisted Gordon learned later, by the handful of coins she tucked into her fist like reverse brass knuckles.

"Move forward!" Kite bellowed.

Step by step they walked up to the mesh gate, and shanty towners swarmed on it, working the lock and pulling at the entrance. There was the _crack_ of a bullet, followed by several more. _Crack, crack, crack…_

Gordon dragged Jack and Stacy down into a crouch, as flat as he could get them. He looked around in the damn smoke – there were shouts and swears, and Gordon was pretty sure they were mostly guards. He could see them moving strangely – a few of the telepaths were most likely messing with them, making them see and hear things. Gordon kicked out with a foot at a form coming out of the fog, sending it deeper back into it with a solid blow to the diaphragm. He hustled his two charges closer to the centre of the clear space, where they would be safer.

Kite had not been stationary all this time. Davis had handled the vortex, and Kite clicked on the lighter…

…a fireball the size of a softball lit up like an orange lamp in the mist. It shot like a rocket across the heads of the shanty towners. Gordon tensed. If that thing hit an actual person he was going to have to commit suicide putting it out….  
It hit a car. The street rocked with the explosion and there was a tinkle of glass as the windows nearest the blast shattered. There were screams and shouts and everyone around stopped gaping at the spectacle and turned to flee.

The gate was levered open right as the blaring sirens screamed in the surrounding area. There were more sharp _crackcrackcrack_'s and Gordon was the only one who noticed the pinging sound that followed it. Among other things, one of the pings came from four inches away from his foot.

"The roofs! They're shooting from the roofs!"

Janet looked around wildly, suddenly tense and wide eyed. "How did the PRA get here so fast?"

"Silent alarm," Gordon shrugged. "I told you they noticed us casing the place!"

"What?"

"Inside!" Kite bellowed. "Tracy! Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?"

Gordon snorted. "You're clearly not a poker player." He spun around to deck a shadowy figure moving to close out of the fog of swirling smoke and hauled Jack and Stacy ahead as the centre point of the vortex swung forwards, the shanty towners swarming towards the door, the PRA at their backs.

"Shut the doors and bar them!" Kite voice cut across the chaotic din like a knife. Groups of tattered people went for the auto doors, ripping loose the sensors overhead and dragging the things closed.

"They're just glass! We'll need something solid to block them!" Gordon yelled over the milling crowd and alarms going off.

Suddenly Gordon noticed there was no screaming. People should be screaming, shouldn't they? Gordon turned.

There were a couple of guards knocked out on the floor, but that was it. Where was the hospital staff? The nurses? Doctors? Where was everyone, in fact, that was supposed to be here? There were just shanty towners in the reception, trying feverishly to hold the doors while the PRA set up shop outside.

There was a sound coming from the wide cafeteria room that took up most of the first floor that wasn't taken up with the ER and reception. It was like a Gregorian chant, filled with discord and flat notes.

Gordon looked around. "Rip loose the counter top on the reception. That'll plug the door," he suggested grimly. Two minutes into the game and things were already spinning out of control.

"Evan, Benny, get on it," Kite ordered. His fireball smoked through the opening and closing door at the agents moving in from the outside. "Davis, round up a few hands and get into the wards, close up the curtains and make sure all the exits are covered."

Fire whirled up around him, parting on either side, and struck a pair of guards that had crept up from the security station down at the mouth of the wide basement stairs. They were thrown against the floor, down for the count.

Gordon didn't notice the sudden silence, except in the sense that it was a bubble inside his own heart, spreading out like new blood, encompassing everything including the pounding in his ears. He lowered his hands, and walked towards them, past the frozen Kite. They were…singed only. It had been a strike of solid molten air more than flame that had hit them, there hadn't even been time to breathe it in. Feeling detached, Gordon reached down to gingerly collect the warm guns from the floor. He turned.

Janet was pointing one of the shanty towners few actual weapon at him. The rest of them were tense and coiled – they had been ready to strike, and mere heartbeat from attack. Kite stood in the front of the foreground, his face set in cement, dark eyes glaring at Gordon.

Gordon took an amazing amount of offence at the glare. "You see what happens?" he heard himself say with bladed fury. "You see how crazy this is? How stupid this whole plan is? This is how quickly it can all go _wrong_."

If they were taken aback by the venom in his tone, they didn't have time to show it. The glass doors at the entrance shattered under hail of gunfire and suddenly the shanty towners were scattering for cover.

"Get that counter up!" Kite bellowed from the floor, where he'd ducked down was now belly crawling to a less exposed position in the reception area.

Ivy had ripped it lose without using her exquisite Ethiopian hands, and several other hands grabbed it. A momentary break occurred in the cracking beat of the in coming fire, and several smoking canisters were lobbed into the building.

Coughing through the foul gas, the shanty towners slammed the long counter into place, which was long enough to bar the entire wide glass frontage, if not completely block it. Others threw their own contribution into the effort, bringing in heavy tables from the cafeteria and chairs from the waiting rooms, piling it all on, in and around, a makeshift barricade.

Janet choked and coughed at she trapped the gas makers under some upturned trash bins. Tears streamed from her eyes and she bent double on the floor, coughing hard enough to gag. "C-can…can we keep….them…out…?"

Kite eyes passed over Gordon darkly. "Yeah. This place is more a prison than a hospital. Not many entrance and exits. The basement is its own lock down area, and the upper levels were designed to be easy to control and confine in emergencies."

"In case something went wrong," Davis nodded, glasses slipping down across his nose. "In case there was an escape or a riot in the asylum."

The chanting hadn't missed a beat, Gordon realised as he came back into himself. He put everything else aside for a moment, into a blind spot so he could start functioning again. He put the evil looking weapons carefully down on a random chair still bolted to the wall, and headed towards the sound curiously, leaving the rest of them to button up the so-called Seredo fortress.

Gordon felt his jaw drop as the scene that met him in the cafeteria began to sink in. The faculty, the staff, some of the guards, the administration, had been lead here. Or had come here. They sat in circles and on tables and chairs, chanting in a low mumble, erratically clapping their hands at regular intervals. It was a broken, shuddering choir of blank faces and soulless voices, their eyes had a switched off, murky quality that indicated whatever they were seeing wasn't the here and now. There were a few shanty towners keeping watch, but taking up the floor were Jack and Stacy, sitting and facing each other, playing some sort of clapping game with intense concentration.

They've switched off the minds of an entire _room_, Gordon realised chillingly. Alan, well, Alan used to do that when he was very young and didn't understand what it was he could really _do_. He didn't understand back then when councillors and trainers and teachers got mad that they just…stopped being mad when Alan smiled. Alan had just thought it was smiling that did it, and in a superficial way he had gotten it dead on. He just hadn't understood that no one else could do it.

It had taken a long time for anyone to notice just how powerful an empath Alan was – empathy was the hardest of all gifts to measure accurately. It was one of the reasons he'd been home schooled in his primary school years. Too much incoming from too many people stripped his control, yes, but also the fact that if Alan had wanted to he could make a person believe they could fly, believe they could outrun a car, tangle their minds in emotions and nostalgia so that the present reality could be switched off almost completely. When Alan had finally begun to understand this, and all the ethical dilemmas this presented, he had shied away from even experimenting with it. It doesn't last long, he'd said to Gordon once when Gordon had asked him to attract a date for him, and when they come out of it they get _angry_. The way he'd said it had told Gordon that Alan didn't mean the 'mildly annoyed' or 'insulted' kind of angry. He meant the 'homicidal' kind of angry. The kind of angry that would strip Alan bare naked inside.

As Gordon had thought about that, he guessed he kind of understood it. It would be violating and humiliating to have your most intimate, secret self invaded and used against you. If it happened to him, he'd want to kill somebody over it. It was like rape.

A room full of blank eyed people stared Gordon in the face. _Temporarily_ blank eyed, because this state was hard to maintain for long, even with the most powerful empath pulling the strings. When they broke loose, so would hell.

"Relax Tracy," came the voice behind him. "Stacy and Jack together can hold this for hours."

Gordon turned to face him incredulously. "With masses of stressed and sick patients all around them and the PRA closing rank outside and your people milling around stinking of each others feat and anger? Get _real_!"

Kite snorted. "_Relax_. This is only phase one. The basement comes next."

"The basement?"

"The guards are still down there. They have orders not to move. We get past them and we have access to some of the most powerful psychics in the city – and they're likely to be plenty mad."

"No kidding," Gordon snapped. "That must be why they're in an asylum."

"Kite!" Janet came running in. "The PRA is setting up a mobile battering ram. Ivy and Davis say they can't push it away. They're going to get through the door!"

"You want to get out of this or not, rich boy?" Kite asked archly. "If we control the basement, they won't dare come in."

Gordon felt like snarling. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't…

----------------------------------------

Virgil had been hanging up for four hours now, and if you ignored the dizziness, the wrenching ache in his limbs, the cramp, the burns, the bruises, then there was always the damn, damn helmet that kept you awake, stretched your neck, squeezed your temples in a vice. Virgil had been spinning up there for just a few hours, and he hated it, hated it, _hated it_. He listened to the others talk around him, and wondered if that was the only to cope in here – put all the bad stuff and atrocities into a kind of blind spot. They ignored him, mostly.

Except for Chuckles, who seemed to ignore no one. He talked to Virgil even though Virgil couldn't really answer him. He listened. He _cared_. He was a rarity in this place. Virgil wondered if that wasn't why he had so much influence over the others. Maybe he'd listened to them all at one time or another, helped them deal with it, gave them advice.

"Son, you h-ave got to learn pa-tience. Am-bition it a wonderful th-thing, but breaking out within the first six-teen hours?" Chuckled gave a sigh. "I can't gau-rantee how long you'll be up there, but they w-ill get you down eventually, son. Soon. They wa-nt you alive. They want all of us al-ive. Maybe only to know how in-ferior we are, but they won't leave you to d-die. Don't be scared."

Virgil's eyes opened to slits, but he couldn't see past the blurry grey in front of his nose. He wished he could see Chuckles face as he spun towards the cell. He wished he could see _anyone's_ face except just the leering guards who patrolled through the cells sporadically. He was feeling overwhelmed, homesick, under attack. He felt _young_. He was just a kid. He was a senior in high school, he was going to college after the summer…he was…he was just a kid…

"I kn-ow you're up to something, son," Chuckles voice emerged from the desolate despair that nearly overwhelmed Virgil as he hung there like a piece of meat. "You're too smart to n-ot b-be. I wi-sh I knew what was go-ing though that head of yours."

_I wish there was still some brain left for it to go through_, Virgil thought past the white noise in his lobes. He'd do anything, _anything_, top make this stop. He'd have done anything from the start. He'd felt like cutting off his own head…

"Having fun, prince?"

Oh, here we go….

Major Corman came marching up from the elevator, and there was a keen look of pleasure on his face as he inspected the trussed Virgil. "I expect this has all been a kind of educational experience for you. Anytime you want to get down, all you have to do is say the word; our staff will graciously assist you."

Virgil's spin took him around to view the Major's face from right up close – Virgil's head was now as just the right height to look the Major in the eye and watch his obscenely grinning face.

"Just say the word," the prod hit Virgil full in the chest and he choked and coughed as the spasm hit him, burning up his chest and neck, nearly bursting his heart. "Whoops, looks like you've lost your voice."

"The-re's no ne-ed for this, Major," Chuckles voice had a note of cold in it that was rarely ever there.

"Shut it!" the Major bellowed up to him. "I run this prison, you piece of…"

Virgil made a noise, a sort of modulated groan past his burning voice box. The Major grinned at him. "Perhaps you'd like some more, eh? Perhaps you'd all like to see," we waved his prod at the watching cells. "who runs this place? I got no time for those who don't follow the house rules. They don't…" the shock hit Virgil's back, hard. "…get…" shock "…along…" shock "…well…" shock "…here," shock, shock, shock. Virgil groaned.

"Had enough? Get the picture? You want to get down now, prince?" The Major chortled patronisingly. "Okay, no problem."

Virgil couldn't even prepare himself for the drop, and only just narrowly avoided landing on his head and breaking his neck. He landed on his back instead, his legs following as the chains all unravelled and loosened, leaving his arms and legs free of there prisons, for what good it did.

"On your feet prince, on your feet," the Major kicked him, hard. "We've got a busy schedule to keep." The prod came down across his backside humiliatingly. "On your _feet_, I said!"

Do as he says, Virgil's body was begging him. Just do what he says, it hurts, do what he says…

Virgil couldn't get to his feet on his own anymore, and the major hauled him up so Virgil could look him in the eye, and it was no honour looking into those cold, mad depths. Virgil groaned and sagged in the grip around his collar, trying to force his feet under him.

Something shiny dangled at the side of his vision. The pendant glimmered like white fire in the Major's meaty fist. "See something you like, prince?" he sneered. "See something of yours? What they all don't understand is that I do reward good behaviour in here, prince, I really do. Do you want this back? You've got to tell me you'll be a good boy. You'll do everything I say. You follow the rules. I got a job? You do it. I give an order to jump? You go off the cliff. Come on, say it with me, rich boy. Tell all these nice folks you'll do as you're told. Be an example."

Virgil found himself getting angry, and it was like freedom. They'd stuck him in that cage for hours, they strung him up for hours alone with his own thoughts for company and he'd thought some very strange thoughts indeed. The biggest one had been right at the start – I want to make the pain stop. Make the pain stop.

He looked at the white triangle that said _safety, family, home_….

He felt his anger well to a tempest, screaming inside him like a beast, trying to find a way out.

The Major must have seen it on his face, because he grinned that insane, maddening grin. "Got something to say, have you? Well," the Major's hands slipped down to the Psy-blocker control on his belt. "Say it out loud, son, we're all agog to hear." He turned up the helmet.

Past the blinding metal noise, Virgil's rage rose like a shark skimming along the surface of the sea. Emotions are a _weapon_, Virgil had lived with empaths long enough to know it. _Use_ it, _feed_ it, make them like a _shield_, make them like a _sword_. My pendant, my home, my mind. _Mine_. You think you can break me down, because I'm a symbol of everything you hate, everything you fear? A psychic free of rules, free of boundaries, even inside my head…

"…rew you," Virgil gasped, bringing his hands up to wrap around Corman's arms where they gripped the shirt.

"I'm sorry, what?" The helmet was turned up all the way.

Virgil made a good show of curling around with the pain, but it didn't hurt at all now, because phase two was working and it was working perfectly.

Suddenly, Virgil stood up straight. "I'm sorry, let me say it clearer." The shock on the Major's ugly, twisted up visage would keep him warm on cold nights for years to come. Virgil took a stronger grip even as he'd straightened, and brought his head forward, which incidentally had a few pounds of metal wrapped around it. "Screw," he the first blow was dead on the forehead. The Major's head snapped back and forward like it was on rubber. "_You_!" the second blow there was a crunch, a sickening squashy noise and a lot of blood as the Major toppled backwards like a tree, nose a bloody, broken mess.

He still had an unconscious grip on Virgil's shirt so he dragged Virgil down with him. Even as he hit Virgil was fumbling with the strap that bruised his throat and the nuts that bolted the things around the top. It took minutes of fumbling with shaky hands, but even being under fire wouldn't have stopped him. There was a moment of pure triumph as the hateful helmet was wrenched off, the aching weight finally removed. He'd had it on for so long that its sudden absence put him off balance. Virgil heaved himself off the Major and rolled on his back for a moment, waiting for the various aches and shakes to get back down to a manageable level.

The blows had...been a lot more painful than they looked, but to get that helmet off he would have cut off his own hand. Virgil was always a straight line thinker. To quickest route to making the pain stop had been straight through Corman. In the hours in his cell, he had been thinking about making the pain stop, trying so hard that he'd formed a wild but surprisingly logical idea.

Around his temples the rippling wall had been, straight up against his skin…  
"Good grief," Chuckles said eventually. "Anna, I th-ink now is the time to t-turn out the lights."

Virgil was breathing hard as he forced himself to rise up. He looked at the prone man on the floor, and felt rage as black as space well up inside of him. Without ever consciously thinking about it he snatched up the bloody helmet and jammed it over that pudgy, twisted visage, fixing every bolt, tightening every strap. He grabbed the control of the belt, almost like it was the only thing that existed, and in Virgil's rage it really was…

"Not a go-od idea, son," Chuckles voice cut through the mist at the edges of Virgil's vision. His hand froze over the dial.

The rest of the inmates didn't think so. "Not a good _idea_? That s-sadist has it coming!" Anna shrieked from her cell as the lights started to dim. The cells seemed almost quiet now, the ravers and mumblers finally getting a break from the white noise of the helmet.

"Turn the dial, Virgil!" Adam shouted down. "Watch him twitch! The bastard has done worse things to better people!"

"We've lived like animals on his account," the unexpectedly cold voice of Kylie emerged as well, too tired and too old. "When we get out, what then? Our families have grown up without us, our children…and for what?" the old woman sounded like she was crying. "What will happen to him? Due process? What kind of punishment will _that _be, compared to this? He won't have every thought knocked out of him until there's nothing but suffering. He won't be kept in cells for days at a time. He won't spend _years_ deprived of sunlight!" The entire prison seemed to have been silenced by the old woman agony. "He stole everything from us! Everything of meaning! Everything we can't get back! Please, just take some of it back!"

Virgil's teeth were grinding. Oh, that was true. It was all true. He looked down into that pudgy purple face and knew evil to the very depths of it's cold, twisted heart. He didn't deserve mercy, he didn't even deserve justice. He should be spared nothing after what he had done to these people; Virgil's two days had been nothing compared to living in this dank hell hole month after month, year after year…

_You bastard_, Virgil howled in his head. _You bastard, bastard, bastard_…

His hand gripped the little remote. One turn of the dial and he could ensure he'd never put that machine on another persons head again…

"Vir-gil," Chuckles voice came out of the dark, quiet. "He is a sadist, and a monster and an animal. There's nothing in him th-at can be made to be bet-ter. _You are not_."

Virgil froze again. Maybe not, but after everything Corman had done, everything depraved act, and now he was the only one who could make it right…

"Ma-ke it right? You don't ha-ve that po-wer, V-Virgil," Chuckles replied to the red thought. "No-one does. All y-you have the power to do is be yo-urself. Don't te-ll me he has changed you th-at m-much."

Virgil looked up into the cold, dark cell that Chuckles resided in. He's been here longer than the rest of them. Longer than all of them, he thought. His hand moved away from the remote. Maybe he knows better.  
"Virgil!" Adam groaned.

"No," Virgil whispered. "I'm still me. I got nothing to prove."

He put the evil little thing down.

"Ju-st as well," Chuckles called down. "That was the ma-ster switch. O-O-One turn and we a-ll get it."

There was a silence. Virgil stared up into the cell.

"Good grief, why didn't you say that _before_?" Anna said, aghast.

Virgil could feel Chuckles looking at him. "No. So-some things have t-o be done for the ri-ght reasons."

Virgil rubbed his forehead. He needed some sleep. "Who are you, Chuckles? Really?"

"On-ce my name was Char-les Dodson."

Virgil blinked. "Reverend Charles Dodson? We learned about you in school."

"Oh dear. I feel ve-ry old."

"Are you just gonna sit there reminiscing?" Adam snapped. "The guards are going to head down here soon enough with the cameras off."

Virgil nodded at the cell. "Where are the door controls?"

"Forget that!" Adam snorted. "Run for it. We'll handle it." There was a shrieking, groaning sound as the doors of the elevator fought the forces yanking it open. There was a cheer.

"Get going, young m-man," Kylie grunted from her cell. "There's nothing else you can do here."

"Are you sure?"

"It on-ly takes one es-escape to get us all o-out," Chuckles called. "The rest of us are mo-mostly _non compos mentis_. You've g-ot the best cha-nce."

Virgil reached down to pluck his pendant from Corman's fingers. Just holding it made him feel better. He was no longer swimming in the ocean, lost. Now he had an anchor.

He ran for the wrenched open elevator doors as the lights began to flicker and spark. The people in the cells had had nothing but time on their hands. Time to think about just how badly they wanted revenge. Time to think about it in minute detail. Time to come up with lists. As Virgil forced himself up the elevator shaft before the guards came, they were waking up, and realising they had their chance…

-------------------------------------------------

John was glad when they finally got to…wherever it was they were. It looked like some sort of vaulted basement of the old fashioned variety. Dale Kwaldon drove straight into it, it's entrance was straight in from the street. Old parking garage?

John found himself at a loose end when he got there. Dale ran off to get…someone, .leaving Danny with John by the station wagon, a little out of place.

Everyone had something to do here, apparently. It was like an upscale version of the Pro Psychic Network's headquarters. Their HQ was cramped and claustrophobic, but this place had breadth and width, and a full bank of computers on one side next to a coffee station. Cables were roped across the cement floors and strung like Christmas lights in between pillars. There was blank back drop pinned up to one wall on the other side of the vaulted was ringed by cameras and sound equipment. John could smell something pungent and metallic in the air which brought back memories from his childhood long ago, when his father had taken his most scholarly son on a tour of Tracy Corp. Of course the young John had been most enthralled with the publishing department, where the newsletters and ads and articles were churned out. Unless John was very much mistaken, they were running a printing press somewhere. People, _lots_ of people, were running the computers, fussing with the wires, bundling papers and generally adding to the air of chaotic, focused busyness.

John had been fighting uneasy feelings since he got out of the car. It was partly stress, partly suspicions. His skin felt too tight, his head felt too loud, too crowded. He was hungry but he couldn't eat, dead tired but too wired to sleep. He was, in short, feeling like a complete burnout and being in this alien, unpredictable environment was not helping at all. He wished Scott were here. He'd probably be making some sardonic comment or complaining about the unsafe wiring. It would have made John feel far more balanced just to have someone familiar around, someone who watched out for him, knew what he missed.

No one seemed to be watching them, or waiting for them to do anything. John shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before heading toward the, well, he supposed it was a kind of sound stage. There were televisions set up around the place.

John crouched down near one. There was no sound and it was unlikely John could have heard clearly over the busy din. But there _was_ Tracy Corp behind the on-the-scene reporter, lights shining in the twilight. John flicked his eyes over the scrolling caption lines and cursed soundly when he realised he still couldn't read it.

"It says that the President has returned to the White House," Danny said from behind him.

John looked back at the screen. He couldn't read the mind of a video image; it didn't work like that. "What else?"

"Uh…it says… 'the President announced a hearing in Washington to collate the facts of the investigation into the attack. It is still unclear what involvement Jeff Tracy had in the incident.' Uh… 'The investigation in corruption in the PRA continues, and the Miles-Keye Commission has yet to release their findings'..."

"Right," John stared at the screen for a long moment.

"So…do you think they're going to…arrest your Dad?" Danny asked awkwardly.  
John's jaw moved for a moment. "Dad wouldn't go down without a fight. He doesn't let anyone back him into a corner. He never lets anyone get the upper hand in what he values. He doesn't back down; he makes other people do that."

"He may not have a choice here, John," Danny pointed out uncomfortably.

"Dad makes his own choices," John smiled in a tight-lipped way. "It's not him I'm worried about right now."

"There he is," Dale had returned, and he'd brought a clean cut, tallish middle aged man with him. He had the most violent shade of red hair John had ever seen, and it was apparently natural.

"John this is Casey Robinson," Dale gestured to the man. "Casey, this is John Tracy."

John held out a hand gingerly. "Red?"

"Good guess," 'Red' Robinson smiled. He shook the proffered hand firmly. "It's an honour to have you here John."

John shifted noncommittally at that. "Can you tell me anything about my family?"

"If you could just hang on a minute, we'll get around to that," Red smiled jovially. "We'd just like to show you the broadcast set up…"

"With all due respect, no, sir," John shook his head. "I need to know. The last time I saw them they were being chased by the PRA and a bunch of supremacists. They've been scattered all over. Most of them are younger than me. I _need to know_."

"Now, John…" Dale started, but was cut off.

Red had a jaw like a splitting maul, and it moved indecisively before he answered. "We have several leads…"

"You don't know, do you?" John cut in, looking the man dead in the eye. "You haven't got anything to tell me." Maybe his gift was beginning to wake up. Or maybe it was just that he knew a run around when he saw one.

"Now hang on a minute, son. We're here to help you! We've got some leads and ideas, things we can do. But we don't have a lot of time. Our technicians have just got access to a pirate satellite and we only have a small window of time to get this broadcast out before it moves out of range. We _have _to do this now, understand?" Dale was holding out his hands to John, trying to make him understand. "You could get your story out to thousands – millions – of people. It will help."

John shook his head and moved to stride away. "This is bull…"  
Red snagged him by the arm as he passed. "Now look here, son. We're trying to help you here! There's no need for the attitude."

The arm was a mistake. John glared at the clutching hand until Red released him. He continued to glare at the red headed man after the hand had gone. "You only give help with conditions, is that it? That's some enlightened philosophy."

"Just a few lines to the camera, that's all. Just say that you were victimised and persecuted by the PRA – it's the truth, isn't it?"

John tried not to let his anger show too badly as he agreed to this. He kept it inside while they did the set up, and flat out refused make up and hair. If they wanted the truth then they could take him just as he was – tired, dishevelled and haggard from headaches and stress. He tried not to snap. He tried not to lose it.

He knew this was just another after affect of overload. Irritability, mood swings, erratic behaviour, it was all there. Maybe not as debilitating as manic, hysteria or paranoia, but it could be harder to see coming. John concentrated on not hissing the words as he made his statement to the cameras under the hash lights against the backdrop. Maybe he was comforted by the fact that his brothers would see him, would know he was out there.

As for the rest of it, it had turned out to be what John feared it would be. This whole place was a propaganda machine. They talked about persecution and conspiracies. They made atrocities out of mistakes. They talked about _supremacy_.

They had tried, these made up hosts with the messages of anarchy, to get John to talk more about it. They asked him questions, tried to draw him in. He escaped off the sound stage with hastily spoken exit line along the lines of 'that's all have to say'. And all the time those cameras were watching him, analysing him like an insect. He felt eyes on his back wherever he went. Was he getting paranoid again? He felt like he was, damn.

"John!"

"What?" John snapped, his temper fraying.

He turned around to see Danny running towards him with what looked like a young woman about the same age with him. She was just as pierced as Danny was.

John shook himself, forcing calm. "Sorry Danny. What's up?"

"This is Tracy," Danny pointed out the girl. "She's been looking up pro-normal groups on the internet; she says she might have found something."

"Okay, let's see it. And don't call them pro-normal groups. _I'm_ normal," John sighed.

"Uh, right," Tracy replied dubiously. "Check this out," she lead him over to the terminals. "I've been searching these sites all day, I didn't get it until I lined up all the pictures in a row. We were trying to get locations, see? About where they meet. Look at this," she clicked on one, pushing a tendril of hair out of her face. "I thought this might be a lead." The picture showed a meeting rally in a concrete plaza. They were wearing costumes like members of the Second Court. Tracy circled the background with the cursor. It was a billboard "See that? That's an advertisement for Palton's Electronics chain. I thought I could find out where they put these up to find out where they were meeting, but then I started noticing a pattern." She clicked another picture. This showed a grinning young man holding a 'MY THOUGHTS ARE MY OWN' placard defiantly. Tracy circled his upper arm with the cursor. Strapped there was…."A PPX MP3, one of Palton Industries models. And this…see the cars? Palton Katana's. And in this one….see there, on his shirt, you can see Palton's logo. There's more…" she brought up picture after picture in rapid succession.

"Palton," John muttered. "Palton, Palton, Palton…It all goes back to him."

"I go to the movies every week," Danny grimaced wryly. "I know product placement when I see it. Everybody knows Palton Industries uses psychics. He was indicted years ago because they thought he was using some kid psychic on his factory floor. Lots of pro-psychic groups keep tabs on him, watching for violations."

John shook his head. "I don't know that this helps very much."

"No, there's more," Tracy waved a beringed hand. "I got interested and I went onto a pro-n…er, one of those anti-psychic groups chats. They're all buzzing with rumours about some big rally that's going to take place at Palton complex. People are already heading there. They say that they already got a psychic there."

John froze. It _could_ just be a rumour, couldn't it? But maybe not. And if all the anti-psychic groups were planning to be there, then maybe….

Well, what else did he have? He could feel his senses coming back on line. If any of his brothers were anywhere around there he would be able to sense them, wouldn't he? And then it would be a snap.  
Impatient and still feeling a bit uneasy and sick, John thought it was time to leave now. He didn't think he wanted to be here anymore anyway.

"Hey John, did you, you know, put any mind control in the broadcast?" Tracy asked abruptly.

John blanked mentally. "What?"

"You know, plant suggestions and stuff," Tracy asked. She was genuinely curious. Danny was watching him too.

"_What_? No!" John protested. "It doesn't work like…it's just a video image, it's not like I can do subliminal messages onto a tape. And even if I _could_, I wouldn't!"

"Why not?" Danny asked, startled. "I mean, everyone's against you, so why not just, you know, change their minds, or something?"

John remembered not to shout. It was close. "Danny! You just don't _do_ that sort of thing, okay? If I was to do that, what would be stopping me from, oh, I don't know, telling everyone to get a gun and go out shooting up anti-psychic rallies? Do you think they'd only hit bad guys, or something? Besides I can't do that, anyway. That's not how it works."

Danny seemed puzzled. "But didn't you do something to the people that attacked your house…"

"No! I gave the impression that things were a…certain way, and let them make their own assumptions. Even then, it only works for about a minute, tops. I can't make them think things, or believe things, or follow my orders. What do you _think_ I do? Just tramp around inside people's heads whenever I like? Take thoughts from people when I feel like it? Magic away free will, the thing that makes us decent and human? That's _sick_." John sounded horrified.

"So…so," Danny mumbled. "You can't…cure insanity or anything. By getting inside people's heads?"

John stared at him for a long minute. "Is _that_ what you thought? That's why you told me about your mother, you thought I could help her?" John found himself at a loss. "Danny…I can't…what's going on with your Mom, I can't…look, all I could do is read her mind, see her memories. Maybe I could, you know, remind her that you exist, but that wouldn't make her sane. I can't fix minds, I just look at them." John felt like a complete heel anyway, looking at the expression on Danny's face. "I'm sorry."

Danny nodded miserably. He was crestfallen. Tracy patted him on the shoulder.

"Where do you kids get this stuff, anyway? Mind control, curing insanity…" John shook his head, not trying to be unkind. He'd been blindsided by the revelation.

"It's in all the newsletters and stuff," Tracy replied in a small voice. She dug around her desk for a moment, unearthing from the debris a fistful of pamphlets and papers.

John looked them over, but they were useless to him in his current state. Actually, he was starting to pick out a letter here and there. That was a good sign.

"_This_ is what you people are printing?" he asked in disbelief.

"What's wrong with it?" Danny seemed almost angry at John's flabbergasted tone. "We're helping you with that stuff!"

"Helping me?"

"What seems to be the problem, John?" Red had come over. Everyone seemed to be watching them now. "We often write about the assets that psychics offer to the community. It's to drum up support."

Danny had slunk off to his Dad's side, and was whispering in Dale's ear. He rested his head on Dale's shoulder. John looked at them both, feeling at the stress and tension and eerie watchful feeling well up to a boil, sending him into a rage. But it was a precise rage.

"It's all _lies_!" John yelled, throwing the propaganda papers down at the man's feet. "You churning out nothing but empty promises; it's a con! What, do you think all the people who start following the movement will stick around after they realised they've been lied to? That's one messed up philosophy, and I'm not even going to start with ethics!"

Red shrugged. "Look son…"

"I'm _not_ your son and I'd be ashamed if I was. Address me as an adult, sir, and tell me the goddamn truth, if you think you're capable!"

Red flushed angrily. "What is the problem? The PRA and the rest of those bigots all use propaganda to get their message across. If all we tell people is that psychics are harmless individuals who are so wound up that they spend their lives on the edge of a psychotic break, what are people going to think? People have to believe you are useful, powerful, that you can bring them some benefit. People aren't impressed with the truth. We've got to give them something that will equal what the bigots are feeding them."

"Match lie for lie," John answered in disgust.  
"They don't hurt anybody, John," Red retorted. "Hell, we're improving your image!"

"They don't hurt…" John choked back an entire dictionary of curses and his desire to punch Red in his fat head. "Twelve years ago a monorail station was buried under an avalanche in the Alps. All the psychics had their own car. The people digging them out dug out the other cars first, do you know why? They listened to a load of bull about how psychics could move tonnes of weight and make heat and a mess of other stuff. They weren't bigots. They weren't anti-psychic. It was triage. They really believed that the psychics in the last car were in less danger. They really thought that they could save themselves with some omnipotent power. And because they believed those stupid lies those psychics all died in the snow, in the dark, alone and listening to others being saved. Can you _imagine_ what that was like? Doesn't _hurt_ people? Ignorance does plenty of harm in the right place!"

Red actually took a step back from John's white rage. "But they probably wouldn't have been trying very hard to save them anyway. It's a tragedy, yes, but you need people on your side…"

"I don't _want_ people like you on my side! One of those psychics was my _mother_. My _mother_, understand? Armies of support won't bring her back! Maybe they couldn't have saved her, maybe they could have, but it was _your_ lies that made sure they didn't try! You all make me sick, churning out this rubbish! You're no better than any racist bigot on the street! Worse! They're more honest than you!"

There was a ringing silence as the last echoes died away John ran his hands through his hair. That did it. "I'm leaving. I'm gone. I've jumped through hoops in your little three ring circus, and now I'm getting off," John snarled. He stalked towards the ring of people, who flowed backwards and out of his way.

Except for Red. He reached out of grab John by the shoulder as he passed. "Wait, wait. I'm sorry you feel that way, but you can't leave now! We need you! The whole network is getting people together, they're rallying because of what's happening to your family. We need you to…you know…"

"He a figurehead in this little stage show," John growled. "Forget it. I don't owe you anything. Get you hands off me, of I'll _show_ you why people are so afraid of us!"

Red backed away, but he didn't back down. "Don't be stupid. Where will you go?"

"I'll…" John stopped. His senses really _were_ coming back online and no mistake, his head was buzzing and flashing with all sorts of weird signals. The feeling was being watched was more focused. More present. It was like being watch from inside his own head.

_Oh, you know I'm here? Took you long enough_.

"Everybody run," John called urgently. "Everybody! They're coming in, run!"

_Whoopsie, too late_

There were minds all around them. Focused, hunters minds. There was a bang from the garage doors as the truck battered through the doors, it's front fitted with steel bars and armour plates just for the purpose. Around them, glass broke, the tiny windows near the ceiling were kicked in. Damn! He's been insulated from noticing them coming! John was driven to his knees by the spike of pain that the laughing voice in his head shot at him.

"John!" Danny was by his side again. "What is it? John?"

John closed off his mind. Steel doors dropped down, shielded walls went up. But he couldn't get her out. "She was watching…all the time, she was watching," he croaked out. The tear gas was filling the room, making breathing and seeing a chore.

_Feeling sick. Awww, don't worry. We'll make it all better_.

He wished he could shut that arrogant, smug voice off. Without even realising it at first, John was dragged along with a whole group of people toward the backdrop side of the old garage, which was a flat, reinforced wall they could put their back's to.

Some recorded message was blaring and echoing around the whole room. Something about getting on the ground, hands up, this was the PRA sort of thing. The agents were screaming at them, hauling and punching people to the ground, closing in over the retreat like cats on cornered rats.

"Get those cameras on!" Red bellowed. "The connection is still up. Let them see this!"

The pro-psychic's charged at the agents, screaming defiance while others turned the spotlights on them. The camera's blinked and recorded, the TV's were showing weird double images of everything that was happening.

"Look at this!" Red was bellowing into a headset microphone. "This is what the PRA are willing to stoop to! This is what your civil liberties and freedoms mean to them! If you still want to live in a free country, then you must be willing to fight this!"

It was chaos. Fighting through the crush of people, John snatched the headset from Red. "This is John Tracy. If you truly think that this is worth fighting against, then come to Palton Compound. That's where the real action it going to be."

Red snatched it back. "What?"

"You wanted a war, Red," John snapped at him. "I'm going to take it out on the streets, where people can't hide it, where they can't put it in a blind spot. _That's_ a truth we could use."

_Oooooh, A challenge_.

Shut up, John thought to himself. But she couldn't access anything now. His mind was on lockdown.

_I see what you see_. It was a singsong.

Have it your way. John snagged a discarded jacket off the floor. "Is there any other way out of here?" he yelled over the noises and screams. They'd had formed a sort of buttress of trestle tables and other equipment.

"Yes, we can…" Red was saying.

"Don't! Don't tell me. Just lead me down there," John wrapped the jacket around d his face, tying it tight to muffle as much sound as he could. "It'll take too long to explain. Just do it!"

Overhead, the crack of weapon fire cut across the din, followed by the shattering of glass as the agents took out the lights.

Not the place to be blind and deaf, John Tracy….

-----------------------------------------

Scott sat in the office, aching and numb at the same time, staring at the glass in front of him. He wouldn't have drunk it if he was dying of thirst, and he felt almost like he was. The chair was comfortable. The air was cool and refreshing. The chains had been replaced by simple plastic ties and his hands were at least in front of him. He should feel glad. He should feel comfortable.

He didn't.

Bale Palton was arguing with somebody on the phone in front of him. Behind him the glass was webbed crazily, lines of cracks seeming to give the man a broken aura. Scott didn't remember much about the transport here. He'd been trussed up and trucked at gunpoint, and his tired mind had used the time in the prone position to enter a kind of exhausted trance. He went over what Ackleby had told him. _Don't move. Don't make waves_. Being with one man who wanted him alive, however, seemed just as dangerous as being with Father Stewart and his cronies.

He didn't know what Palton had done to get him here. It hadn't been decided in the room he was in. He was just taken here, suddenly.

"…look, just keep them out. I don't care how." The phone went down with a snap. "Seems the ralliers are getting antsy."

Scott didn't bother to respond to that. He was instead looking with some interest at the white bands of skin on Palton's fingers. No rings. Huh. No tie clip, no fountain pen on the desk, no cufflinks…Scott smirked all the way in.

"I'm glad you're alright, Scott," Palton said abruptly. "I'm glad I could get there in time. Those people down there are not exactly enlightened."

"They have that in common with you," Scott nodded amicably, grinning. Well, his lips stretched and his teeth showed.

Palton's injured look could have won prizes. "There's no need for that."

"Will you _please_ give me some _credit_ for my intelligence and _cut_ this damn charade," the words swung like blows. "I haven't got much patience left and believe me, it's _not_ throwing through what's left of your fancy glass office that's the real struggle right now." Scott showed that funny, tense little smile again; it was the one that came from exhaustion and pain and bubbling, bubbling anger that finally had a real target.

"Violent as well as ungrateful," Palton grunted, sounding insulted.

"Yes I am," Scott replied.

Palton watched him. Minutes stretched by, sounded by the old wood clock off to the side of the office. If silence was the game, Scott had the edge. He helped raise kids. Palton's jaw moved, and he appeared to come to a decision. "If you want to take your chances with those people down there, young man, you're free to leave. Though my sources tell me they're building a gallows out there."

Scott glared at him. "Fine by me." Maybe the pain and sleeplessness and the concussion was making him reckless. Maybe it was this gauzy, tasteless glass walled office that was too cold and too ostentatious. Maybe it was his host, whose avarice was like a bad smell and would try the patience of a saint. His hands were free, his mind was a clear as a sheet of glass if a little fuzzy at the edges, he had responsibilities, he had to find his family because the idea that he, Scott, took care of them was a grooved in reflex of many years, and he was not going to sit quietly and take this anymore.

He hauled himself to his feet. He should have swayed by the anger made his body too rigid to give in. He stalked toward the elevator door and barely reacted to the sound of Palton shooting to his feet, clearly blindsided.

"I can get you to your father," Palton blurted. "You're brothers I don't know about, but I _can_ get you to Tracy Corp."

Scott froze, despite telling himself not to. Dad would know what to do, where to go. Dad would be able to make the hard decisions. If Scott left this building, where would he even start?  
"He's there, Scott. The PRA are keeping him there, but I have friends in the PRA. They will let me in."

Scott turned his head to glare sideways at the man. "And what do you get in return for this magnanimous gesture? You don't want to see the Tracy family whole any more than the PRA does. Tracy Corp's been a consistent front runner ahead of Palton Industries since it began, you've never been able to get ahead. You've got no good reason to help any of us."

Palton shrugged. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I have a better shot of success cooperating than competing with your father."

"And helping me will grease the wheels?" Scott snorted. "You can't be that stupid. After what you offered my Dad before, after what you did? He told me, you know…" Scott trailed off, and he turned around. "You're really not that stupid are you? You want something else."

Palton leaned back against his desk. He raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what's happening out there? The citizens want you dead, the PRA want you in jail and other psychics will spit on you in the street after being forced into hiding over the attack they think _you _organised. Your family haven't got many friends right now. But if it could be _proved_ you had nothing to do with it, then all your problems disappear."

"It _can_ be proven!"

"How hard do you think the PRA are going to look into a story coming from you?" Palton challenged. "They need a quick solution to this whole thing or people are going to start looking hard into what they really do all day. They're not interested in the truth, and they can safely ignore anything you claim. But if _I_ claim that you were doing contract work for me at the time, I can show them the paperwork, give them witnesses, security footage…" Palton waved his hands expansively. He reached behind him to a stack of paperwork. "All you have to do is sign. It'll get the PRA of your backs. Give you time to find your family, ensure your safety."

Scott scoffed. "You seriously expect me to sign my life…to _you_?"

"I am not in the slavery business, Mr Tracy," Palton said in a long suffering voice. "I am not going to chain you up in my basement and force you to work. You choose the jobs you do. We pay you. We'll pay for all your education costs, getting into the Air Force, housing, housekeeping, the works. And none of you will have to deal with the PRA any longer."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "_All_ of us?"

Palton waved his hands again. "I assumed your family would wish to take advantage of the offer."

Scott said nothing, but something in him was freezing over.

"Look, what do you want?" Palton persisted. "Do you think you're going to stay in Yale now? Do you think the Air Force will want anything to do with you? Your father's a psychic too, and right now that's as popular as anthrax. The PRA are going to watch your every move, and what they aren't watching your neighbours and teachers and every person on the street will be poking into. What kind of life is that? Do you _want_ your brothers to grow up living with that?"

Scott glared at him. Even if it was all true (and it _was_, dammit, and the knowledge clawed at him) he didn't have to put up with Palton.

"This is business! This isn't some petty revenge," Palton continued, sensing he had hit a weak point. "Tracy Corp can make me money through psychics. Palton Industries can shield you from harm. You don't like living in this country? Fine, we'll send you to one of the branch offices. You want degrees, training, opportunities? I can have you test flying the latest and fastest vehicles our defence contracts can produce. You can have everything you _want_, son. Your brothers too."

Scott shook his head. "My Father clearly didn't think much of your offer when he was here. No metal? Dead giveaway."

"Your father," Palton replied. "Is a proud man. He thinks being alone is the same as being independent. His influence is shrinking by the hour. The PRA have him in a corner. If he were here now, he might reconsider."

You really hate that he's a better man than you, Palton, Scott snarled inside his head.

"Look, give yourself a minute. Reflect. Think it over," Palton tried to pat Scott on the shoulder as he passed. Scott slapped his hand in mid air. Palton shrugged. "If you don't like it, then you can walk out the door. But my protection ends at the door. And they're out there, waiting for you. Do you have a better offer? Think about this, Scott," Palton walked to the elevator. "Even if you can prove you are innocent, even if by some miracle the PRA decides to leave you alone, do you think anyone is going to trust anybody wearing an armband again? Whatever freedoms psychics had are about to be revoked. All you can do is get ahead of the game." The elevator doors slid open. He turned to face Scott from inside. He was ineffably smug. "You want me to drop the so-called charade? Fine. Sign the papers, and you live to see the dawn. Sign the papers, and you and your family are taken care of for the rest of your lives. Sign the papers, Scott. You don't have any other choice."

The doors slid shut.

Around the desk the papers whirled an explosion as Scott vented his futile rage.

---------------------------------------------

Alan watched One-Seventeen from his seat in the tiny compartment that had been taken over the keep them in. The PRA agents didn't seem to feel the need to separate their helpful psychics from the fugitive psychics. With only four seats available the agents didn't sit in with them, but two were posted outside the open door. One Seventeen hadn't been introduced to them, but Alan knew who he was. He hadn't said anything to Alan. He stared out of the window with dark circled eyes, turning a handkerchief over in his skeletal hands. His hat was off, and his bald head made his face look even more skull like. He had nervous tics all over. He looked like a poster child for three of the four Horsemen, and maybe War too if you included dead-eyed post traumatic stress.

Alan couldn't help looking. He wondered if that was what a psychic looked like after years of service in the PRA.

He looked at the other much dishevelled passenger in their little car. Well, at least he had something to smile about.

"Stop snickering you little brat!" Andrea snarled.

"Sorry," Alan grinned, feeling wicked and amused. "But I suddenly just noticed that there's finally a _real_ person involved in all of this. The only _real_ person in the whole world and it couldn't have happened to anyone better."

Andrea glared at him. "Aren't you scared? You don't even know where they're taking us! How dare you make this about me…"

"Oh, shut up." Alan turned to look out the window, which had been jammed shut. They were driving through the skeletal mass of some unfinished rail complex . Chequered lines rose across the windows. It was barren out here, scrubby woodland and rocky grassland ringed the abandoned site. Futility – Alan didn't know if the structure inspired such a feeling in himself or One Seventeen. He was picking up all sorts of strange signals in his overtired mind.

Andrea was spluttering and raging. For the last hour she'd been yelling, shouting, threatening and cursing the agents, and now she sat like sullen child, picking at the buttons of her business suit. "I don't suppose you have any more insane plans up your sleeve? You know, when we actually need to do something?"

Alan ignored her. He was much more concerned with the rising tension in his stomach, the savage chill in his spine. He was lost, raw and tired. He didn't know what they were going to do with him, but he saw a future reflected back at him in One Seventeen's face and he didn't like it at all. He felt overwhelmed. He felt scared.

He rubbed his hand anxiously, trying to warm them and dry them, and watched the afternoon sun sink slowly, along with his faith.

-------------------------------------------

"It's good to see you back in office, Madame President," Jeff Tracy bent his head towards the vid screen in his office. Off to one side, Condor Reaming chewed a fingernail while he stared out of the window, apparently lost in a world of his own.

Jeff had to admit, whatever else the man was (and with Penny you could never be too sure) he was an excellent groomer. His meeting with the President and the rest of her chiefs of staff via satellite feed was done with a certain amount of shine and poise.

"Always the charmer, Mr Tracy, I remember that from the functions I've had with you," the President nodded. "I wish we had time for pleasantries, but I'm afraid our nation is reaching critical mass. Martial law is being considered in some major centres, did you know? You have caused quite a stir."

"Your Psychic Registry has been responsible for most of it, Madame, with all due respect." Jeff had no time for formalities either. "I asked to see you because you are the only one with the authority to order my release at this time, Madame President. I've been questioned, searched and audited. There's nothing more I can do here. My sons are missing, Ma'am, and I need to go and find them. I don't want them out there alone." The shake in his voice was perfectly under control.

"The PRA are searching, Mr Tracy."

"The PRA…" Jeff stopped himself from yelling. "Are currently under investigation into their actions involving my family, my company and I. You cannot seriously tell me you believe that is an unbiased investigation."

The President drew herself up. "Mr Tracy, you must be calm. Your actions have been equally questionable and the investigation is still incomplete. There's no proof of anything yet."

"I have proof. After I have found my sons, I will personally come to Washington and present it. And I will give you access to the device." Jeff could feel their interest.

"You will not leave it to the proper authorities?" the President raised an eyebrow. "You have caused me a great deal of trouble, Mr Tracy. I don't know what kind of connections you have in Europe, but the British Parliament is about to offer asylum to a US citizen and the rest of Europe is threatening to withdraw their embassy support in reaction. You finagled an audit of a government agency in the middle of a national crisis – well done, but you've destroyed systems of security and safety and law and order throughout the country. I'm not inclined to allow you any special treatment."

"If I am not allowed to leave to find my family, a family _your_ agency, good intentioned or bad, has scattered, then I'm afraid Tracy Corp's interests will be going off-shore," Jeff finally snapped, the coldness in his voice arctic. "All your medical contracts, the pharmaceutical research, the satellite network, the telecommunications, the infrastructure deals, everything. We run most of the rails and we control the entire communications network for your federal agencies. All of that will stop. I won't say that everything will grind to a halt but it will make life a great deal more difficult."

The President looked cold. "The American nation does not respond well to threats, Mr Tracy."

"I don't respond well to being held hostage by the American nation, Madame," Jeff replied calmly. "I don't want to hurt _anyone_, but if I am not allowed to go and find my sons, if I am not allowed even that tiny freedom, then I am no longer interested in serving your public trust, thank you."

The President sat back, her face, bandaged and bruised but completely unreadable. Jeff felt slightly ashamed of himself, even with all his anger. She wasn't a bad woman. She must be injured and in pain and she had a job that was hard enough for a fit person, and she showed enormous strength of character by returning to her work as soon as she could stand up on her own.

"We will…decide."

Jeff nodded, and his meeting was ended.

"An interesting woman," Condor spoke, his voice oddly quiet. "Not my type, of course, but she is built to take adversity."

"As long as she knows when to bend," Jeff ran his hand over his face. "Are we ready?"

"We're ready. After a certain point, however I will not be able to help you." Condor raised a plucked eyebrow. "Don't take unnecessary risks, darling. You are no use to your sons dead. You are no use to them buried. You won't have much time, even free. The PRA has a lot to take out on you."

"The feeling's mutual."

--------------------------------------------

End Part XII


	13. Escape From Tracy Corp

Disclaimer: The author does not, and never will, claim ownership of the Thunderbirds.

Warnings: Adult themes, the supernatural, intense situations, mild coarse language.

Authors Notes: Finally, I'm back again! I know, but this time is wasn't entirely my fault (it mostly was…). A tech found something like eight hundred plus suspicious files and two viruses on my computer last month. Yeah, maintenance isn't my strong point. Not to worry, we're close to the end of this monster now! I am determined to finish.

Please read & review, and thank you to all those who did.

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Part XIII – Escape from Tracy Corp

_In which there is – Red Dwarf – Trust & Anger – Leap into Darkness – Get it Right – Location, Location – Found – Watching – Draw the Line – Psychic Scream – Confusion – Barricade Battle – Fire Tricks – The Unexpected Twist – Reaching – The Hard Way – Illusions & Delays – On the Edge – Going Low – Escape from Tracy Corp_

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"There was no way I could stop the transmission, sir," Agent Forlan spoke slowly and carefully, hanging on to a furious burst of frustrated anathemas toward the upper echelons. Didn't they get it? Were they down here dealing with this man and his cohorts, who made life difficult for him and his squad at every turn; horrendously complicated filing systems, the most locked down computer systems _in the world_, more numbers to crunch than an accountants convention, poor office facilities, faulty pens, even down to the most vile coffee that the break room coffee maker could conceive? Tracy wasn't one man – he was the general of an army. "The Miles-Keye Commission took the call and carried all the authority. I was told to comply with them in all particulars. For Christ's sake, even if I had told them not to, it wouldn't have made a difference!"

That didn't cut much ice. The Voice, furiously icy, told him just what to do about it.

Forlan snapped off the phone, and leaned back in the control chair of the security centre. What a system! Tracy was completely thorough, Forlan had to give the man that. No blind spots, no maintenance tunnels uncovered. Well, it was a double edged sword now.

_Take care of it_. Yeah, right, understood. He knew exactly what was going on here. The upper crust had gotten a hold on something, and it had turned out to be a hell of a lot more hot and slippery than they could control. The Miles Keye Commission was spreading out now, past Tracy Corp, past the Tracy family, and straight into the heart of the PRA. They were slow. They were methodical. They weren't under pressure, they didn't have to rush. They could move as slowly as icebergs into major shipping lanes. It never mattered how long it took, they would cause a disaster sooner or later. They floated around the place making little notes, reading little documents, asking little questions. Difficult questions. Like why he could afford a new car every two years, and things like that. There was no real mystery to that – everyone had the privilege of whatever psychics home had been raided; the psychics weren't in a position to complain even if they _did_ get back there. No one had cared about the little things…up until now.

And now the whole house of cards was tumbling down, and who, exactly, would end up under the most manure? Right; the bottom ones.

Forlan sighed as he looked over the screens, and saw Tracy in one of them, pacing in his office. He did that a lot. He didn't access his computer, he wasn't stupid enough to tip his hand that way. But he didn't read, he didn't write, he didn't eat, he didn't sleep. When not taking care of business he paced in his small office, not really a CEO's office at all, with the air of a man with too much on his mind.

Forlan grabbed his radio transmitter and hooked on the headset. "This is Forlan calling squad C, squad C leader come in."

"_Squad C – Punike responding_."

"This has turned into an Operation Red Dwarf. Repeat, Operation Red Dwarf. Please follow standard Red Dwarf protocol." Forlan got up and headed for the security doors, checking his weapon as he went. "Do you copy, over."

"_Copy, Forlan._ _How do you wish to proceed, over._"

Forlan ran his security card down the runner absently, and was startled when it stuck fast halfway down. Tugging it loose, he stared at the security lock in consternation. Something was blocking the swiper mechanism. Peering close in, he saw something lodged in the tiny gap, wedged in immovably. Oh, for crying out loud! It was a piece of fingernail!

Forlan swore, and swore, throwing a coffee cup against the wall in spurt of burning rage. He hated his job, he hated this assignment, he hated his life. "Squad C, proceed without me. I'll give instructions from the security bay. We've got a door malfunction. I'll give you instructions from what I can see on the screens. Do you copy, over."

"_Copy that, Forlan._"

"Proceed to the fifteenth floor, corporate offices. Have Squad A come in from the street, keep the commission busy until we can get him out of the building. Copy."

"_Understood. Squad C moving out_."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Alan sat on his hands, and looked idly out of a window as the scenery rushed by. He wondered where they were going. He wondered how long it would take to get there. He wondered if it wasn't better that he didn't know either.

He wondered how nice it was going to be to win the Pulitzer…

Andrea's eyes were shining and she stared unseeingly at the far wall. "I'll have my own _show_! A penthouse suite! Everyone will have to beg to see me…." She trailed of, and then scowled at Alan in a rage. "_Stop it!_"

Alan chuckled. "You're easy. You're ambition button is big enough for a continent."

"You know, manipulating me just proves everything they say about espers," Andrea snarled. "You do things to people just because you can and they can't. The only reason people started hating them was because of people like _you_. Empaths. I don't care if you _can't _control it, people like you shouldn't be kept around ordinary people. They don't have any privacy with you around."

"People like us," One Seventeen was leaning bonelessly against a window, exhausted. But now his hollow face turned to Andrea, who sat next to him. "People like us," he whispered again. "Are always targets. Even when we help people, even when we give up everything, get our minds ripped in two to help people, we still are just freaks. We can't ever stop that, ever." He slumped. "Ever."

Alan reached over to pat one long sleeved arm. "Why should we hold back when we've got talent? Nobody else does. Prodigies do mathematics, musicians play music, painters paint, engineers build bridges. Can you do any of those things? No. But you can write, so you get ahead writing. We're all equal, even if we're not all the same," Alan glared at Andrea. "Why shouldn't we use our gifts to get ahead? There's people like _you_ in the world, for a start."

"You step all over people's heads, and you expect them to sympathise with you?" Andrea laughed incredulously. "You expect me to feel _sorry_ for _you_? _You_ who have an edge in the uncertainty and chaos that the rest of us just have to fear? You don't _deserve_ it!"

Alan sighed. "Andrea, you couldn't feel sympathy for a blind kicked puppy. It's why no one likes you, not even your own father. He was a better reporter than you could ever hope to be. He went into war zones, told the soldiers stories, gave them messages from home, took the truth of their fight back to the world. You just look for people in moments of weakness, you pass off dirt and rumour as truth. No wonder he won't talk to you."

Andrea had gone white. "How did you know…oh, oh I see. Clairvoyant, right? And you think you smugly telling me all my secrets gets you ahead? I'm glad the PRA have you! You're no worse then I am, but you can be locked away where you can't hurt anyone!"

Alan looked at her. "I bet he'd talk to you if you called," he added. "He's still your Dad, no matter what. You two have a lot in common, even if you won't admit it."

"Shut up."

"But he will listen. He does love you, you know."

"Shut up."

Somebody banged on the door of the compartment. "Shut up in there!"

They settled into their respective, chilly corners as the door opened.

"_We're not going to be with you much longer. This is an Operation Red Dwarf. Initiate code zero-zero-one-red. Initiate!_"

Alan jerked at the guard who yelled these words through the open doorway, shocked. He blinked.

The door was closed. There was no one standing there. The others had not even reacted.

Alan took a breath. A vision?

One Seventeen was turned to looked at him sharply. He was definitely sensitive enough to pick up signals from Alan. He turned the white handkerchief in his hands over agitatedly. He didn't seem to want to let go of it.

Alan had to know if he could really trust One Seventeen. Bedraggled and abused though he was, stuck in with the prisoners though he was, none of it meant that he would help them, that he was on their side.

Alan wondered about that handkerchief. One Seventeen hadn't used it or put it away. He sat with it gripped in his bony hands like a drowning man hanging onto a floatation device. He look was half glazed at the best of times. One Seventeen didn't talk much because he mostly wasn't focused on the present.

Alan extended a hand. "Can I see?"

One Seventeen stared at him for a moment. There eyes met, tortured, tired and dulled by the constant bombardment of the universe. And then he extended his hand.

Clairvoyance, like empathy, was not a switch-on switch-off gift, like most of the soft gifts; that being said, many of the same impressions could be picked up by different psychics. Alan had one now.

The most interesting thing about it was that it wasn't a memory – at least, not in the sense of a rigid event. It was more an emotional bouquet, a nearly tangible tapestry of _warmthhomebelong_, filled with the promise of good company, the imminence of good food, good wine, laughter, conversation – warmth, home and belonging. The words were nearly spoken in his ear "_Remember this? We're waiting for you to come back, kid. Come back home, kid_."

Alan blinked away the smells and sounds and memories and came back to the rail car. A sharp, cutting sense of longing twisted in his heart, with all the driving power of a hydroelectric dam. When he raised a hand to his face, he was surprised to find he was crying.

That isn't me, Alan thought to himself as he handed the square of linen back. At least, the longing isn't _all_ me. That's him. That's all he wants; that feeling…that feeling I took for granted every minute of every day…

Alan saw One Seventeen's road stretch out behind him in a trail of bad memories. Cells, darkness, indifference, coldness. Even with his tortured mental pathways on constant overload, his drive to _get out_ was the only thing that he ever thought about.

"What is _wrong_ with you two?" Andreas voice came from far away as the two stared at ear other, the direction of their gaze like a bar of steel.

Alan pointed to the white linen. "Did you get that on the train?"

"Yes," Came the whisper.

"What?" Came from Andrea.

"Is this all you want?" Alan demanded.

"Yes."

"What?"  
"_Can I trust you_?"

The stared at each other.

"Would you both tell me the damn code?" Andrea threw up her hands.

"What does Red Dwarf mean?" Alan asked after a while.

"Red Dwarf," One Seventeen rasped. "The sun is the mission. The sun is dying. Salvage what you can; tie up the loose ends, protect the company, protect confidentiality. Red means shoot to kill."

He sounded like he was quoting from a book. His rail thin shoulders slumped and he seemed to loose what little strength he had. He closed his sunken eyes.

_Shoot to kill?_ They weren't serious! But according to the ominous click of sliding metal that Alan could hear outside the compartment, they were.

Alan felt a surge of panic. _I have to get out of here!_

Without ever intending to, his panic welled up in the hearts and minds of the other two. One Seventeen curled up, overwhelmed, but Andrea, ah, Andrea, _she_ only had one emotional response.

She rose like a tide, like lava from a volcano, the fear and uncertainly transmuted into something harder, hotter and sharper. It was a spitting, hair tearing, homicide kind of rage, with enough power to drive a turbine.

She was through the door and out to face the PRA with a flash of movement, and stopped only long enough to draw a breath before letting loose.

"_How dare you, you fascist bastards! You imprison _me_, you threaten _me_, how dare you ever lay your hands on me then just expect_," there was a crack of skin hitting skin. "_me_" crack "_to_" crack "_just sit there!_" crackcrack_crack_.

It was the first time Alan had ever been impressed by Andrea. There was something admirable in her perpetual rage; it made her oddly invincible against even the worst evil.

Alan poked his head out of the door, and saw Andrea struggling under a crush of restraining agents. Two were on the ground, covered in scratches from Andrea's long nails. Even with four agents trying to get a grip, Andrea was shrieking and moving, unstoppable. Other people were sticking their heads out of their compartment to gawk at the spectacle.

One agent landed a blow across Andreas face and she fell sideways, and as she did a larger, swarthy man had appeared behind the group, big muscled and dark, and he looked straight at Alan. _Run_ the stranger mouthed at Alan.

Alan would have, but there were agents blocking the way to the rear as well, and one of them grabbed Alan before he could even move. But not for long – the moment he had been dragged out of the compartment, the agent who grabbed him was felled from a solid blow to the back of the head by a wooden baseball bat, wielded by a small, slender, dark man with a fighters stance. He grabbed Alan, hauled him around, and shoved him toward the rear. "Run for it!"

"Gino, right?' Alan asked, his perception suddenly ringing. His eyes flickered toward the compartment. "He's waiting for you."

"We know," said Gino. "Go!"

He flung himself back into the right, bat swinging into the face of an agent who sprung to follow Alan. At the other end of the scrum, the swarthy dark man was flattening the others with sheer muscled bulk and Andrea was clawing the eyes out of the man who dared strike her. In one confused moment, the scrum untangled enough for one agent to get his gun out, and get it aimed at Alan's back as he raced towards the safety of the connecting door of the car.

Andrea was right next to him. Clawing the hair out of her face, she leaned back against the wall, momentarily clear of the brawl. She had been dragged around by that stupid kid, had risked death, been captured by agents and all because the kid was a freak and a whiner. As the gun came up she thought – he deserves it.

It was therefore a complete mystery to her why she flung herself against the gun arm, dragging it upwards so the shot went wild, hitting the ceiling and causing screams all down the train. The passengers started running down the train in a mass panic and the conductors starting coming in from the front – all in all, it was not going at all well for the PRA.

Alan was ahead of the wave of panicked passengers fleeing from the front car. He raced down the second and flung himself down the third, and footsteps following him got fainter as the panic behind subsided a little. But the agents would come for him.

He was down to the fourth car when he heard the pursuit pick up again, the heavy sound of steel caps rapping along about a car behind him, and the sound was suddenly drowned out by another train, passing alongside this one so now he couldn't even tell how close they were. Alan was nearly to the end of the train, and was quickly running out of space.

And then he was back where he started – the freight car. Breathing hard, Alan looked wildly for a place to hide, or a weapon, or _something_. If they found him here, away from people, they could shoot him without anyone to protests. Alan knew he shouldn't have run this far, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried.

There was _nowhere else_ to go. The final door opened out to the air, and jumping off a train going at this speed would probably leave him a broken wreak on the ballast. Alan tried to force himself to be calm – he had about a solid minute to think of something better than just jumping off the back.

His eyes fell on his old hiding place, a little alcove surrounded by camping supplies.

Something yellow caught his eye.

He looked back out – the trains were still passing one another, going the opposite way. They were at full speed, so he couldn't pull off the same trick he'd done last time. He looked back at the camping supplies. It'd probably never work.

The doors on the preceding car were being opened and closed, opened and closed. They were being scoured, and Alan was running out of options.

He lunged toward the yellow inflatable raft, and yanked it loose, sending others cascading. Ripping it loose from it pack, he fumbled for a second box, a strong blue nylon climbing rope. Dragging them to the door, he wrenched it open to the night air rushing by, the dark mass of the second train was a clanking, moving shadow roaring past in a blur of streaking side lights.

Alan looped the rope though miscellaneous rings on the rafts surface, and knotted a crude lasso with a D ring at the other end. His hands were shaking.

Too desperate and pushed to think about it clearly and methodically, he dragged the still deflated raft to the edge of the door, half out of it, and half lay on it.

Just as the door was flung open, Alan flung the blue rope towards the passing train, as high and as hard as he could, hoping it would at least catch something in the blind throw. He yanked the inflating cord and had the foresight to grip as hard at he could at the thing inflated under him with the hiss of rushing air, and before it was even finished and the first shots started flying, Alan was yanked out into the night with a yell.

------------------------------------------

Jeff had slipped back into his office. Randall and Condor Reaming had separated in the corridor, and had vanished into different parts of the company like ghosts.

Now he was alone. Now he could _think_.

Well, for about four minutes, anyway.

He paced his office in slow, pendulum steps. Two steps a second, perfectly in tune with his heart beat. Onetwoone…onetwotwo…onetwothree…he thought of his sons, keeping his pace steady even when his heart wasn't. He was as scared as he'd ever been – more scared than when he'd stepped out of Kansas to the big city the first time, more scared than walking down the aisle, more scared than being almost out of sight of the moon and there being a major malfunction in the forward thrusters leaving the Olympus crew about half a million miles outside a possible rescue. Even more scared than looking down at his first son that first time, all tiny little hands and big eyes, and had thought to himself in a grey panic _what the hell do I do, what can I do, how can I do this?_ But that had been a terror made all the worse by love, the palm dampening realisation that you just had to get it right, or the world would stop.

_I have to get this right_.

But…that was the thrill, that was the edge, that was where his soul burned and bubbled. The thrill, the chase, the risk, the gamble – Jeff Tracy was a more sophisticated adrenaline junkie than those that jumped off cliffs or climbed skyscrapers or ducked under buses, but the same drive was there. Air Force, NASA, corporate competition, you don't get anywhere among them without a serious focus level when the fear response kicked in.

So he paced, slowly, patiently, with the air of a lion that was not caged so much as biding it's time. One minute…

Two minutes….

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Virgil took the exact same route he had last time – whether it was a psychic thing or merely a Tracy thing but all the Tracy's had photographic memory. Even with the blurring from the helmet, he remembered the way back…

….right into Corman's office.

He closed the door behind him gently and locked it. The people in this place were on night shift, and were swarming like a drowned ant hive. They swarmed down, Virgil climbed up, using the elevator shaft and the stairwell, ducking into closets….he'd have to ditch this stupid jumpsuit they'd stuck him into. Even with the mass confusion outside the door, he couldn't just walk out wearing it.

Virgil put his head in his hands. Even with an overload of endorphins to help him, his head still pounded, his stomach cramped angrily and his joints howled like rusty hinges. He sat down in the inside of the door, trying to clear his mind, to think.

Corman's office had been close to the lower cell block. That was the only reason he'd made it before the alarms started going off. Static and security blackouts were common from a psychic cell block – it was hard to watch people who could mess up electronics. It had taken that precious minute, that one minute of space as the guards waited for it to flicker on again as it usually did, and then realise that not only was it not coming on, but it was spreading up the floors. That's where Virgil had slipped through.

Virgil knew he had to get out of here. If he got sent back to the cells, they wouldn't give him another chance to escape. He looked around the grey, tiny office for something he could use.

Heavy footfalls landed outside the door. Virgil was up on a tidal wave of adrenaline, one hand flicking the lock while his body moved sideways and as the door opened on the very click of the lock and swung open, Virgil was inside the stuffy closet, slowly, slowly, shutting the door, so they wouldn't notice the movement. Through the crack, he saw the lip of the open office door, and a voice shouted in "Sir, we have a major…he's not here. Round up the squads and lock down the perimeter!"

They left the door hanging open as they rushed past. Virgil counted to ten, and sidled out of the dim hidey hole, breathing hard as he carefully toed the door back so that it was almost closed. This area was probably safe for a few minutes.

Virgil moved toward the desk, treading carefully on the thin, grey carpet. It was…weird. In the cells Corman was a dictator, lord of the castle; but looking at his office, he was nothing but a middling bureaucrat. The change in perspective was disorientating.

Virgil found the computer still logged on, and gingerly knelt down on the floor behind the desk, ready to duck if anyone else came in to check. Getting past the screen saver was easy – he looked at the icons on screen blankly though, they offered no information he could use.

At a loss, Virgil moved to check Corman's e-mail. That was easy enough – but it as full of alerts and urgent marked messages. Virgil checked them one by one, scrolling down the screen, reading the viewing window quickly as he could while still glancing at the door every handful of moments, worried and tense at the edge of discovery. Footsteps pounded back and forth, but no one had detoured yet.

The alerts were interesting, or would have been had they not mostly been in code. Code twenty two situation, code fifty seven alert, code zero nine, code one oh four, code ten two hundred, Blue Tachyon, Red Dwarf, White Hole, Black Hole – if he knew what it meant he'd have known what it all meant.

But…it wasn't a total loss. For one thing there were a _lot_ of them. Most of them were unanswered, which meant either Corman was too busy to care or had simply put himself out of the loop. The latter seemed more likely – several of the messages mentioned Corman by name in the body as requested to acknowledge. Virgil wondered why Corman would do something like that – it was pretty obvious from the messages, even in code, that the PRA was halfway into meltdown.

Oh, yes, Virgil realised. It might be because of him. Corman seemed to have something fairly personal against Virgil – or the entire Tracy line, really. Virgil knew he could be used as a tool against his father in any number of ways. Maybe Corman was playing stupid and ignoring orders about keeping Virgil in one piece. It would certainly be typical of the walking Cro-Magnon.

Virgil rubbed a frustrated hand over his aching face with a sigh, pressing a hand over his mouth and rubbing his jaw absently as he refocused on the screen. These messages couldn't help him – he needed to know where he was, what the layout was, _something_ to help him get out of here.

Or maybe…maybe they could help. Corman's e-mail address was 'site 54'. So if site 54 was where he was, then all he needed was a code book. And there had to be one of those on here somewhere.

Virgil nearly had a heart attack when the phone buzzed shrilly on Corman's desk. He stared at it, sweating, at it continued to ring. Almost jerking awake, Virgil reached out a hand. Hesitating, he switched on the intercom mode.

"_Major! I expected an answer half an hour ago. You've been informed on the level five alert, why haven't you checked in!_"

Virgil opened his mouth, but hastily cut off anything he might have said.

"_Major! I have been peppering you with direct orders and have been routinely ignored, Major. I expect an explanation, Major. I expect an explanation _now_, Major, or you'll never be called major again!"_

Virgil found his voice again. "Er…the Major's not here, Sir."

"_Who is this?_"

"Se…Senior Cadet Maynard, Sir," Virgil invented quickly. "I'm sorry sir. I was sent to find the Major and I ended up in his office, sir. We…"

"_Well where the hell is he, boy_?"

"We have a major security breech here, sir. One of the psychics has escaped from cell block. No one knows where the Major is, sir, that's why I was sent to find him."

"_Which bloody psychic?_" the voice snarled.

"Er…I think it was the Tracy son, sir."

A vitriolic string of cursing issued from the phone. "_That's all we need! Listen to me, I'm sure from your voice you're just a farm bred simpleton, but try to work this into your feeble mind. Go to the main screen of your superiors computer and enter the GSI-SI Network. Type in PC2340990101 into the password box. Right? Type in site 99 into the search box. Got it?_"

"Yes sir," Virgil watched the screen light up with a map, a glowing red dot right in the centre. He grinned to himself.

"_Now you listen to me lad. This is what I need. I need a squad of agents over to site 99 with transport facilities and I need to talk to the major, _right now_! I need you to do this within fifteen minutes. That means I need you to get cracking, because you've just been privy to secure information, and if you can't get me what I need, I can bust you down to janitor, understand? Don't make me impatient, lad, you wouldn't like the consequences. If I'm not impressed within fifteen minutes, the every bit of crap from this crap storm is going to be thrown on you! You got that?_"

"Sir, yes sir!" Virgil responded smartly, still grinning.

"_And tell those transporters you're sending to be fireproof. That damn Tracy pyro is the target, understood?_"

"_Wha_…yes sir," Virgil caught himself just in time.

The phone line buzzed, leaving an empty tone.

"Gordon," Virgil breathed. He tapped the red dot. Seredo Hospital, he knew it of old. Site 99. "I'm coming for you, kid."

But first…he typed in site 54 into the search box, and waited for the right screen to load up eagerly.

His headache gave a throb – and Virgil felt a familiar sense of presence wash over him. John?

_No._

Suddenly Virgil was on the floor, hands gripped to the sides of his head in agony, as the white pressure exploded somewhere in his frontal lobe and seared down his spinal column. There were psychics here, good and bad.

_I've got you now! I've got you both now! I found him! I found him!_

--------------------------------------------------

Jeff planned for exigencies; he never assumed that the plan would work, that conditions wouldn't change. He was a business man, and he was a father. He knew how full of uncertainty life could be. Jeff Tracy could never be backed into a corner because he made sure he was the one designing the building.

He spun a sharp, military ninety degree turn mid pace, and reached the wall behind his desk. He kept a small set of shelves there, to file reference books and specifications he might need. He grabbed the remote still on his desk, and punched out a number sequence. There was a quiet click from behind it. Dumping the remote, Jeff levered the shelves and the panel behind open and folded himself inside the tiny, box elevator. Reaching back and around, he shut the door and cycled the vault like inner lock. Reached up from his curled position and pulled and handle lever down. He felt the box begin to drop.

Agent Forlan, sitting in his command centre and waiting for them to get the damn doors open, watched as Jeff Tracy reached his office, and began to pace….

----------------------------------------------------

…._found_…

_What?_ John wondered. He could feel the other psychic mind curled around his mind, and in such an intimate place it was easy for John to tell that she was both far away, and also not the most balanced person in the world. But he thought he might understand why. She was obviously very powerful, but most of the incredibly powerful psychics were non compos mentis, or almost so. She seemed well on her way to fugue.

John wasn't sure where he was on the way to – blinded and half deafened by the makeshift hood over his head, he had to rely on the Kwaldon's and whoever was left after the raid to lead him to safety. He wasn't sure which way they went, they ran like rats through echoing, fetid tunnels that fed off from the abandoned garage, down the drains and slithering through the pipes. John learned later that the place used to be part of an industrial chemical manufacturer, and they had escaped through it's drainage system and into the catchments just through the vats. The Network may be propaganda merchants but they were not fools – they had escape routes.

John didn't know how they got out at the time. He'd warned them, quite sharply, that all they could do was lead him with simple directions, and never to use names. He'd told them someone else was listening through him, something psychics could genuinely do.

_I'll find you_. The smug voice was still in his mind. _I'll find you, and I'll find big brother Scott, and little brother Virgil and little brother Gordon and little brother Alan and we'll all be together, one big happy family, won't we? And the Kwaldon's will die, and the Robinsons and the Tracy girl and the other do-gooders will die, and your daddy will die…_

_Shut up._

…_because who needs old people around anyway. And there's nothing you can do about it, John-John, because you let me in like an idiot and now I'll never leave you and we'll have so much fun together, won't we?_

_You haven't found me yet_, John thought grimly.

Her grating, mad laughter echoed through his skull. _I know where you're going! I'll just wait for you to come to me! And while you're waiting, do you want to see what I see, do you want to know what I know? Do you want to see baby brother?_

_What? _John hesitated a moment, enough for her to batter against his armour, hammering all the weak points. Absently, he began climbing a rusty set of ladder rungs when pushed into them. He felt himself being pulled up and out, back onto horizontal ground.

_He's here, with me! Do you want to see, do you want to hear?_

John felt it, another mind through the conduit. It was hard to describe the sensation, like a radio station just at the very edge of it's wavelength, filled with static and incomprehensible, but even by proxy he could feel the crushing weight of the consciousness bearing down on it. A bolt of pain shot right between his eyes, and John staggered with a groan.

"John?" Dale's unseen hands steadied him. "What's happening?"

"Their pet psychic is probably attacking him," came Red's voice. "Come on, Danny, you in, Tracy in, get John into the car, come on." They had hit open air, although echoes still rang around John. They seemed to be in some sort of valley, where the sound still bounced. John, still hooded, was hustled into the car. He could feel the upholstery of the seat and the muffling of sound as the doors were slammed.

_I see Dale and Little Danny. I see Tracy. I see Red. I see all you're little friends. Do you think they'll like playing with bullets?_

John shut down whatever parts of his mind she was trying to get into, and ignored, shooting a derisive _I don't play with pet psychics_ to her in frustration.

_PET?_ The mental shriek was deafening.

"Where are we going?" Danny's breathless voice called him back into the car and out of his head.

"Away! Where we can re-group!" Red's voice bellowed, and he gunned the engine and took off.

"No!" John's yell halted the car with a wrenching slam, causing John to bang his face on the window seat in front of him. "Ow. I mean, no, take me to the Towers. To Palton."

"Look son, that is suicide," Red snapped. "There are anti-psychic groups swarming all over that beat. We go in there, and we'll be ground zero for pain, okay? It's not worth it!"

"They just raided us," Dale's voice was shaking with rage. "They shot at us! They hurt and killed some very decent people! The other are going to round up everyone they can, I know they will! Get on the horn, Red. Call in your favours! They have an army, well so will we!"

"Dale, I think you've gone round the bend!" Red yelled back. "It'll never work!"

"Yes it will!" Tracy argued. "It will, Dad. There's hundreds of us out there. If they're not already pouring in with John's message, we can get them there! Palton has a psychic and they really need our help this time. Not just papers and words, real help!"

"If we all get killed, then who's left to stand up to the PRA and other like them?" Red shot back. "We have a responsibility to think about! The psychics who came to us for help need us to remain alive!"

"You had a responsibility to tell them the truth too, and look how well that turned out," John replied to him bitterly. "Look, are you trying to tell me that you only believe this as long as it's safe? What kind of weak option is that? If you really, really believe this whole pro-psychic message Red, then you have to be ready to risk something for it, to gamble on it, to trust it. _That's_ belief. If you have really drummed up the support you say, then don't just lull them with false promises – show them where the line is drawn, which side they've really chosen. I know I'd rather be scared than to be pandered to."

"All out war, that's your solution?" Red asked incredulously. "After decades of lobbying for peaceful tolerance and co-existence, and you want us to take up the gun?"

"Yes," John snapped. "If we really believe it, then there has to be a point past the lies, past the compromise. There has to be a line in the sand. And I'd rather we draw it with us all together, showing our strength and right in the spotlight than I would letting gangs of people them _and_ people like you wander around the whole damn city! It wouldn't matter who you were, _nobody_ would be safe! We tried it the quiet way, but now the world is actually listening. We need to make it loud."

John stopped to take a breath. The voice in his head laughed and taunted, but he ignored it. "I don't care what you do, either," he added sullenly. "I'm going, whether you are or not. My brother's in the middle of that whole mess."

He could feel their minds working, even if he was very careful about going inside.

"Let's do it," Danny said with finality. "They took our equipment, our press, they've got our names. They'll come for us no matter what we do. We might as well make it a show."

Red sighed, and capitulated. "I hope you realise just what kind of damage you might do to your own cause, John."

John sighed. "Between the two of us, Red, it couldn't get much more damaged than it is now."

They drove onward, and Red spent most of the way there on the radio. There were a lot of people he had to call.

Eventually Danny whispered to John. "Uh…how's it going, you know, in there?"

John looked at him unseeingly through the blindfold. "She's still in there, but I'm good at protecting myself. When you're mother's telepathic, you learn this kind of trick really quickly."

_Ha!_

"What are you going to do?" Danny asked.

_Nothing._ Said the smug voice.

"Nothing yet," John replied, shrugging.

John felt the car slow. "What is it?"

"The police have tried to blockade Palton Plaza," Tracy piped up from the other side. "They've parked their cars across the entrance, and their trying to stop cars from getting in. Some people are climbing the walls, though. Looks like there's a huge crowd down there, there's a lot of lights moving around down the road."

"Some of the guys are already here," Danny added.

"They're all coming," Red said, resigned. "But I don't know how you plan to get in. There cars are being funnelled back into side streets."

John tried to remember what the Palton complex looked like. "There's one long drive to the main gates, right, the compound sits at the end of the T section?"

"Right," Dale said. "They're diverting the cars down the T section and blocking the gates."

"There are cars ahead of us?"

"A whole row."

"Stop," John ordered. "Let them all go through, but hang back. We'll need a nice, clear run straight to the gates."

"We're _not_ going to ram them!" Red groaned.

"What else have we got, Red?" John shrugged gnomically. "Line up all your friends that are already with us behind us, they can come too."

"This is _insane_," Red declared.

"I used to work for safety testers, Red," Dale offered. "If we're going fast enough, we'll get through. Buckle up." He added.

_Your going to di-e, you're going to di-e,_ the sing song rocked in his head.

The sound of horns already hit up behind them. Dale talked quietly into his phone, passing the word around. John tried not to listen closely, since his ears were passing things along.

Red revved the engine finally, the horns all blaring around them, and shifted it into gear with a crunch. Leaning on the horn, he yelled 'brace yourselves!' before jetting down the long road, screaming past the parked cars and canes and angling for the blockaded gate.

_Would you like to know how little brother is doing before you die?_ The pain was there again, taunting and heavy, filled with suffering.

_Bitch_, John thought wholeheartedly, and listened to her laugh. "Are we there yet?' he asked tensely as the car still accelerated.

"What?"

"Are we there yet?"

"Almost!" Danny yelled back.

"Get down! Brace yourselves!" Red bellowed from the front.

"We're about to hit!" Tracy half screamed.

John ripped off the hood and focused ahead. The first image he saw was a police cruiser, ten feet away, coming at him like a bullet. His adrenaline spiked as he jerked as his instinct to duck kicked in, and the presence in his mind backed away in the same moment, doing a metal equivalent of a duck. He felt her standing in his head slip momentarily, but it was enough.

The crash was loud, and they jerked in their seats like toys in a truck, and the cruisers were spent spinning like topes from the high speed impact to their upper and lower quarters respectively. Aside from that one, painful, violent rattle, the pro psychic car kept going through past screams and shouts, and it's convoy sped in behind it, leaving the police scrambling to get out of the way. A wave of pedestrians followed them through the breech.

_Now_ John could do something. As she had been in his mind, he could get into hers along the same route. And he did, delving into her thoughts and ignoring her impotent shrieks of fury. He gathered up the panicked, frantic, angry thought coming from people around him, the bubbling miasma of thought from the crowd ahead and bunched it into a psychic fist which he threw at her mind as hard as he could, shattering her attempt to re-group. It took a lot of his strength from him, and his mind felt like it was on fire, but he struggled past the pain, past the sense memories, past the twisted up pathways of the anonymous psychics mind, and tried to find that one fuzzy signal that it was connected to.

_Virgil!_

…_at site 54, Virgil was able to uncurl at last, the pressure of the other mind suddenly switched off and subsiding. He searched his own mind, as he had been taught, trying to find the other presence, and see if it was still in there, or if it was really gone. Then came the faint, tiny whisper, like listening to the echo of an echo._

…_Virgil…where…_

_Virgil tried to clear his head. He scrubbed his face of tears and sweat and winched himself upright stiffly using desk drawer handles. John, he thought to himself desperately. John, can you hear me? I'm here John…_

_John saw a memory. A map on a screen…site 54…site 54…_

_Stop it!_

The mental blow caused John to stagger out of the car as it careened into the Plaza and could go no further. He vomited the meagre contents of his stomach and she tried to take control again.

There was a raised dias made of wood in the Plaza, and a robe clad man with a megaphone shouted out. "Who are you all?

More cars were pouring into the Plaza, more support. The police tried to trail them, but their presence was spread pretty thin, certainly not enough to control a crowd of hundreds, maybe over a thousand people already bunched into the plaza. It sat just before the main spire, and was quite large and open, but it was hemmed in by buildings either side and despite it's size was still nearly full to capacity.  
"We're the Pro Psychic Network," Red bellowed back, suddenly as colourful as his name. "I remember you, Father Stewart, you old bigot! You'll not be doing any lynching with us around!" Dale was digging a tyre iron out of the trunk. Danny was helping him, and Tracy was carefully approaching John, worried.

There were howls and jeers from the Second Court. "See these people, these deceitful, base people, who stand for this abomination?" Father Stewart flourished to the crowd as they roared in agreement. "They are so low, they cannot even be pitied!"

"That must be why the police have a warrant for _your _arrest, Stewart," Red yelled back grimly as the pro-psychics lined up, armed with whatever they could get there hands on, grim faced and angry at being attacked by the authorities, looking for something to take it out on. "Or should I say, Stu Welk," Red continued over the din. "Second rate con artist and third rate preacher. Weren't you in prison in Utah last year? Something about a religious cult, wasn't it?" Red sneered at him.

Father Stewart pursed his lips. "See how he seeks to undermine us with false accusations and slanderous words! Shame! You are no better than those abominations you so foolishly defend. No mercy for the man who knowingly defends evil! No mercy for the ESPers. No mercy!"

"_No Mercy, no mercy, no mercy,_" the crowd chanted. And pro-psychics added their own cries. "Racists!" "Bigots!" "Liars!"

Whipped into an incoherent frenzy, they charged.

John staggered to his feet as the two sides rushed each other. _You want friends?_ He asked the mind he grappled. _You want to control all the minds around? Here!_ He took all the thought, all the rages, all the passioned words, all the pure mental noise, loud as the Big Bang and just as un forgiving, and drew it to himself, letting the struggle go. It flooded him, submerged him, he was lost within moments and it kept careering down on him, crushing and deafening and blinding and shattering. She took control of his mind.

And got it full in the face.

There was moment's breathless flood as it streamed in her mind through John, untameable. And then it all fell in on her, and the mental screm she gave drove everyone in the plaza too their knees with its volume.

_AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH_!!!!

-------------------------------------------

"Look will you get up there? He had an escape elevator in his office! He just got in it! Look at the schematics and find out where it goes!" Forlan shouted into his com. "Go! Hang on!" He watched a large panel swing open on one of the screen, and Jeff Tracy, still wearing his suit, was clambering out. "He's coming out on a sub basement level – I think he's heading for the employee train. Get down there, we've got access! And someone open the freaking door in here!" Forlan pummelled on the metal door in futile rage.

"_We're working on it, sir. D squad is heading down there to apprehend him now_."

"Don't mess up! We've shut down the train, haven't we?" Forlan snapped out the question.

"_Yes sir,_" the squad leader replied.

The wonders of sabotage.

He watched Jeff Tracy walk away from the camera, heading for the basement.

Up in Jeff's office, Jeff re-emerged from the elevator after his very brief ride, dressed in one of the dark security uniforms that Randall's bunch wore.

He went out the door unmolested, as the squad had already been redirected.

-------------------------------------------------------

It wasn't as if things could get much worse. Gordon had this irrelevant thought at about the same moment as the bullets zinged into the wall about four inches above his head. Of course, he could be dead wrong about that. He could also be dead, too.

There was a consignment of special guards that looked after the basement wing, and they had barricaded themselves down there. There was one set of stairs down to the asylum – no elevator, no back stairs, nothing. That was part of the security measures; one way in and one way out made it impossible for any half sane patient to slip by unnoticed. There were lock doors at the upper and lower ends of the stairs, which needed to be buzzed to be opened. Within this safety zone the guards from the asylum had barricaded themselves, some at the top of the stairs with guns, and some at the lower end, which were trying to contact the outside.

The anarchists shielded themselves in hallways and behind doors, waiting for the new round of bullets to cease.

"They'll run out soon enough."

Gordon was wrong. It _could_ get worse. He turned to glare at Kite as he hunkered down next to him in a handy alcove next to the water cooler. "I thought you were keeping the outside _out_."

"The gang have got it covered for now," Kite said offhandedly. "Any progress?"

Bullets seared the air above them.

"No," Gordon said flatly.

"You kids better give up now," yelled a voice from over the barricade. "You're surrounded. The PRA have procedures for this. Protocol says they are fully legal when they shoot to kill in here – think about it."

Gordon pursed his lips. That was probably true.

Kite smirked. "Okay, I've thought about it." He rose up and made to get into the hall, clenching his hands in preparation for a good solid ball of fire.

Gordon hissed and dragged him back as bullets honed in on the sudden target. "Don't be stupid!"

Kite looked annoyed. "What? You want to formalise a treaty on paper?"

"One, setting fire to your fortress only works if it's already been breached, otherwise we're just setting to the one place we're safe; two, assuming they haven't already cut the water and power, the sprinklers will come on and will not help matters and; three, you really don't play poker, do you? You don't just show all your cards the first hand! The PRA out there know there's a pyro in here somewhere, so they'll have come rigged with fireproofing and all sorts of other goodies. But they may not know how powerful they are, so they might do something stupid! So _would you just chill on the fire already_! There's no point in giving them any information they can use against us!"

Kite looked angry. "We're not playing games here, Tracy! You know what? You're such an expert - you handle it. Davis!"

"Yeah?"

"Take it away!"

The reinforced glass around the barricade was abruptly cracked and webbed; it bent and groaned in agony as Davis's powers were brought bear on it – and gentle push in the centre, causing radiating pressure fractures to snap through the wiring. Suddenly the pressure was too intense, and the windows blew inward, forcing the guards inward and down.

Kite gave him a shove – Gordon stumbled out into the corridor and into the T intersection that lead up to the asylum doors, completely in the open.

"All yours, Tracy!"

_What_? What was he supposed to do?

The men behind the crazy-bent glass were regrouping for another try. It wasn't that there were many of them – there didn't need to be with most patients downstairs being comatose or _non compos mentis_. Any psychic with even the slightest ounce of lucidity while still being insane usually went to a more criminal-based lockdown. This was mostly a vegetative and group facility. The problem was that the asylum was built to be defended – from both inside and out. The guards had straight shots from the top of the stairs, and were shielded from either side from a blind spot ambush. Even when they got past this barrier there was a second one to get past as well, at the bottom.

Gordon could hear the snickering behind him. He doubted Kite meant to get him killed; this was more along the lines of serious humiliation within alpha males. Kite wanted everyone to know who was in charge, and Gordon didn't bend to any authority – as least, not those he couldn't respect.

He saw the guards pop up again. Instead of retreating or diving for cover, as he suspected Kite wanted him to do, Gordon stood, arms outstretched, his brain focussing in a way only those gambling with everything could understand.

"Tracy!" The yell came from behind, stunned and surprised.

"Take your best shot, guys!" Gordon raised his arms higher and invitingly, hissing the words through clenched teeth as the pain of concentration ripped through his vastly starved brain.

To the guard's credit, they did hesitate briefly when faced with an unarmed teenager standing directly in their line of fire. It could have been because it was morally reprehensible, but it might also have been because of the teens unwavering rictus of a grin that showed a row of white teeth bared in the harsh fluorescent lights.

Then one guard snapped and pulled the trigger, his first jerk of motion jolting the others in to action. Then the screaming started.

The guns were suddenly shrapnel ridden and halfway to junk, some of the pieces shooting back with the recoil, striking the hands and faces with searing burns. The barrels were so overheated that they were twisted and warped, the bullets shattering before they even got through and leaving the open of the crippled channels shooting nothing but molten metal.

Howling and yelling, a couple fell back down the stairs, others were on the floor of the landing or in the small guard alcove within the barrier, disarmed and swearing.

Gordon was on his knees in the corridor, hands gripped around his head, feeling like white hot and ice cold needles were being hammered dully into his skull, pinholing his scalp and brain. The floor shifted beneath him, swinging like a hammock, the colours bled away for an instant, leaving a grey mess. If Gordon had had anything in his stomach, he would have lost it then. As it was he dry heaved and brought up flem and bile only.

Shivering slightly, he managed to raise his head into the agonising light to see the others storming the barricade, punching in the already shattered panels and tearing their way past the safety wires, running down the guards that were attempting to flee. Ivy, the slender Ethiopian, was kneeling down next him, her almost buzz cut hair fitting her long face with an odd beauty.

"You…" she hesitated briefly. "Okay now?" She waved a hand. "Okay?" Her voice was thickly accented.

"Yeah," Gordon gasped out. "Okay." He watched her a moment, settling himself back against the handiest wall he could find so he could re-orientate himself. The walls bent in around him and wavered back nauseatingly. He tried to focus on Ivy, who hovered worriedly in the foreground. "Why…are you here?" The, for the circumstances, irrelevant subject swam up through his water logged mind. "You're…you're not…from around here…" Gordon's voice was a drunken slur.

It took a moment before the non-fluent Ivy could translate that. "No. From Senegal. Very small place. No like…I."

Gordon blinked slowly, and then nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

"I come on boat. Learn American from sailors. Many, many like I."

Yeah, America must be a real improvement for psychics, Gordon thought bitterly. "You ended up with Kite?"

Ivy shrugged her thin shoulders. "No work. No money. Kite is good – teach me words, give me food. Feel better." She shrugged again. "Not feel better anywhere else. No love. No smile. Nowhere else. Must…fight. No want to, must. _Must_. Nowhere else."

Gordon grimaced. His head felt slightly clearer, and the pain was at least manageable. "Yeah. Seems like there's nothing but corners to get backed into these days."

Ivy looked confused by the words, but the sentiment seemed to reach her. She gave a bright smile, with huge, white teeth. "Yes. Now we choose. Now we choose."

Gordon blinked as he ran that through his still disconnected brain. Choose what? Maybe it was a translation thing. He looked at Ivy's face. Past that smooth skin, past that infectious smile, the eyes were tired, old, exhausted. Optimistic – but it was like the optimism of a terminal patient knowing that the end was near – the cheerfulness of knowing that the old pain would soon be gone, and the new adventure would soon start.  
He wondered where that idea had come from. He usually wasn't one for dwelling on people's motivations. Oh, why not? He was tired, half starved and had just superheated air inside the tiny space of the barrels, which would have been difficult fully fed and rested. His brain wasn't exactly functioning.

There was an explosion of gunfire from the stairwell that echoed up into the hall. Ivy jumped and rose, and Gordon rolled himself around and heaved upwards, weaving and clutching the wall for support.

The barrier at the top of the stairs was decimated. All the glass panels were shattered, the doors had been wrenched open. Beyond, a couple of unconscious guards had been propped against the wall within the alcove room where residents were checked in and checked out. Beyond that the second door, leading down to the stairs, was left hanging open, and now contained a flood of Kite's followers, who were fleeing the second assault from the stairs below.

Davis was dragged out – he'd been hit in the hip by a stray bullet and was pulled into the corridor by Kite. He was groaning and in tears, rolling his body to try to escape the pain. Ivy knelt over him now, kind hand gripping the serious but not fatal wound to stem the flow of blood. Gordon stared at the spectacle, too disconnected to get involved.

"Nice one Tracy," Kite grunted, annoyed and angry. "Got any more tricks like that we could use? Right now?"

"Nope," Gordon said light headedly. "It's all down to you."

"But that was so cool!" one of the others grinned at Gordon. They were all grinning at him, breathing hard after the heady assault. All of them except Kite, who watched him expressionlessly.

He turned to one of the others. "I know what to do. Get an oxygen tank."

They rolled it down the staircase when the had it, the pure gas streaming out in a pressurised whistle, punctuated by the clanks at the cylinder dropped down the risers. "Get back," Kite ordered flatly, flicking on a little pilot light.

"Kite, no," Gordon was pressed against the wall right next to the barricade, still trying to get his breath back.

There was shattering behind them, and from the distance the sentries watching over the hostages and the reception started sounding the alarm.

"No time, Tracy," Kite pulled a fireball into the air and lobbed it down the staircase like a grenade. "Fire in the hole!"

Gordon ducked flat, cursing. Kite hadn't moved.

_Whoomph_.

That's what it was. No bang, just the whisper of exploding gas. _Whoomph_. The fire surged up and down the stairwell, a mass of expanding plasma, channelled up.

It hit Kite. Janet, who had been hanging back in the other end of the corridor because she was now weaponless, let out a shriek and ran forward, unable to see the pyro bending the fire _around_ himself. The fire made a rosy filter through which Gordon could see Kite had his jaw clenched in agony as he sought to protect himself. Gordon saw him take a step back, but the gas burned out in only an instant, leaving an annihilated barricade at either end, flash burnt walls and a slightly singed Kite at the top of the heap.

"Kite!" Janet screamed coming to face him. "Are you okay? What did you do that for? Are you crazy?"

"It wouldn't hurt me. I'm a psychic, I don't need to be pandered to by a normal," Kite replied calmly and cuttingly. Stung, Janet backed off a step. Kite turned to smirk at Gordon, who was watching him through narrowed eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," Gordon pointed out slowly.

Kite's smirk widened, and he looked down at the destruction. The guards below had been blasted back by the explosion and now law in senseless heaps at the bottom floor. "Come on, guys. We're in!"

A cheer went up, unaided by either Janet or Gordon.

"Kite, that was amazing!" One said wondering, as they descended.

"No," Gordon muttered to himself as he went down last, unheard by anyone. "It was stupid." His bad feeling was getting much worse.

He could hear Janet's voice echoing up the stairs as Gordon dropped down them tiredly. You could still hear the hurt in it, although the report was concise. The siege army surrounding the hospital had fired canisters of tear gas much like their home made smoke bombs through the ground floor windows, hoping to flush out the anarchists. Jack and Stacy were having trouble with their hostages, especially after the canisters had nearly been fired into the cafeteria. An upsurge of panic had made their minds less open to suggestion, and it had taken all their various empaths and telepaths to keep order; and they couldn't keep it up. A group of staff on the upper floors had barricaded themselves on the upper floors with the paediatrics, oncology and intensive care patients, and there weren't enough people to take control of it; once the fireman got here, the outside army merely needed to climb in the upper windows on the ladders. Davis needed medical attention but they couldn't disrupt Jack and Stacy to just get one doctor.

Kite started issuing orders. Sabotage the elevators. Block the stairwells. Bring the hostages down into the asylum. They may not have the manpower to take the whole building, but they could quarantine themselves in a corner of it.

Gordon listened to the orders in a fuzzy, disconnected way as he staggered down the hall. Directly past the second barricade at the bottom of the stairs, there was a long corridor, stretching all the way down the length of the asylum. The asylum was divided into two halves with a thin channel between them, like the hemispheres of the brain. On the left side, there was a huge living/eating/sleeping area, which reminded Gordon of the shanty town – everything was done in one room. Bunks lined the back of the huge room, like a barracks. Off to the side there were long steel trellis tables and benches, bolted to the ground. The rest of the area was open space between support pillars, interspersed with a few chairs and couches, which were either incredibly light weight or heavy and bolted. Gordon made all this out fuzzily through the glass/mesh/bar layers of the psychic proof windows and doors. It was difficult to remember, but it was night time. Most of the residents lay twitching in the bunks. Even weak psychics didn't tend to be good sleepers. That was also the reason for a couple of handfuls being dispersed around the room – most of whom were staring blankly into space in a murky, drug-induced stupor, or watching with fascination the snow on the tiny TV, which was kept in a cage like a pet. One that Gordon could see, and he _could_ see, because the lights were never turned off, was rhythmically slapping the wall with his hand. It seemed more of a reflexive jerk than an actual action. Every few seconds, the flat hand would fly up, and lightly strike the wall, like he was beating a drum. Others curled up on the floor rocking or paced back and forth mindlessly. Some walked around with a completely dead eyed trance look on their faces, as if they were seeing somewhere else, walking inside a dream. One or two sat at tables and twitched or drew or tapped or talked. One was drawing on the concrete floors and walls with chalk with an unstoppable single-mindedness. They didn't seem to be at all agitated, so either the walls around here were sound-proof, or they simply weren't immersed in enough reality to care what was happening around them.

On the _other_ side….

Well, things hadn't changed much. A field of beds, row after row of them lined up like corn, all occupied with one unmoving, starved, sunken occupant, with identically placed machines and identical tubes running in and out. The one's who lay there with their eyes closed and their mouths forced open with air been run into their chests were not nearly as disturbing as the ones who's eyes were open as they did the same. The Seredo Hospital was about a hectare in size at it's base and the asylum took up most of the basement, so there had to be at least four hundred beds, all identical in their silent, unmoving horror, stretching back as far as the eye could see. Men, woman, large shapes, long shapes, _small_ shapes, they were laid out like occupants of a mass tomb, surrounded by white.

They didn't even cover them with _blankets_, Gordon noted as the fury inside him welled up chokingly.

Things really hadn't changed much – when Gordon's school had brought him and Alan here, they hadn't been allowed to enter the 'active' area. Insane psychics were pretty dangerous, even though they were mostly drugged into a stupor. But there was nothing any of the people in the beds could do. Nothing at all. Whether they were awake inside a body that no longer functioned or they were slowly slipping into places the mortal eyes couldn't see, their bodies were starved out shells of nothingness, atrophied dummies that breathed and did nothing else. What was once vital people were just these piles of barely vital tissue, neither alive nor dead.

Gordon remembered, it was the smell that had really gotten to him. Dozens of unwashed bodies shoved into once space, mixed with the cloying smell of disinfectant and the hint of waste from the various plumbing wares that which each inmate had, which were never the best and never entirely smell-proof. The entire effect was not overpowering, but it stuck on you and stayed with you a long time. The smell had gotten to him, the _feeling_ had gotten to Alan. Two minutes inside the room already had him in tears – he'd only been eight at the time. Gordon wasn't an expert on the comatose mind, he had no idea what you could pick up from them, but evidently it wasn't nice, because Alan had nightmares and all sorts of night time problems for months after. So had Gordon, come to that.

Gordon turned away and weaved toward what looked like a break station just before the corridor started up between the two halves. He suddenly noticed a flash of bright colour on the bench that surrounded the small area, and honed in on it. It was one of those charity trays, filled with chocolate and crisps and other junk food. Heaven knows what it was doing here, but Gordon reached for it and attacked it, ripping loose and devouring a chocolate bar which did nothing to calm his screaming stomach. He reached for some other stuff. This wasn't the kind of food he should be eating in his condition, he knew, but there was scant other available and Gordon would collapse if he didn't get something soon.

A large hand with it's fingerless gloves reached in to snag some chocolate too. Kite looked about as minced as Gordon felt. The words _you're stupid _ranged themselves against Gordon's starvation-drunk tongue, so it was fortunate his mouth was full.

"We got the basement," Kite said as he took a bite. "We got the leverage now."

Gordon felt the sugar hit his blood in a soothing, energising rush; he straightened. "We've got nothing. We've got a building full of people we can't control, the army ready to come in with legal rights to take kill shots and no way out. Fan-freakin'-_tastic_ plan you have, Kite."

"Watch it, Tracy," Kite grunted and reached for more food. "You're here on my good graces only, remember? You don't have to like it, you just have to go along, and you _will_ because you're in it as deep as the rest of us now." His hand stretched out and he snatched Gordon up by the front of his clothes. "If you have a problem with that, please don't hesitate to let me know."

Gordon glared at him, and shoved him away. "I'm not the one with the problem, Kite. I'm not the one who just stood in front of an explosion to prove who's better at everything. That's why you did it, isn't it? You can't stand that anyone might be better at something than you!"

"Why not? _You _do. The Tracy Golden boys, the great psychic family. You keep on flaunting that you had it _hard_. What a load of bull! You've always had a roof over you're head, you've had the best doctors, the best schools, the best teachers, the best care money could buy! You've never had to flee your own country because you're father tries to kill you like Ivy did. You've never had to be locked in a think tank like Davis did. You've never been driven nearly to insanity like Jack has. You've never been thrown out on the street and had to eat trash like _Stacy_ did. You've had the best life of any of us, a better life than even a normal has, a life that any one of us would sell our souls for even with the bad stuff, and what do you do? You find someone to _complain_ to. You make me sick! You pretend to be a nice guy, ha, you might even _think_ you are, but you're just another rich snob deep down, Tracy. You think you're one of the oppressed masses? You'll never be one of _us_! You're a lot more like _them_ than you've ever been a psychic. You might as well have signed up for the PRA."

It all came out in one huge bitter tide. Gordon took a step back, shocked. Then his fury reasserted itself. "Okay, so you all got trod on more than me, fine. And maybe I was protected by my Dad's wealth, maybe you're onto something there too. But what about _you_, Kite? You went to Garstone, just like me. You had money, just like me. So that makes us a lot alike, doesn't it? And you know what? No one has really been out to get you, either. You just went out to get others. Do the rest of them know what you were like before you found 'the Cause'? You know, the one that did drugs and destroyed stores, and burned houses and blew up cars on busy streets? Do they know about Kite that threatened to set other kids on _fire_? And _laughed_ about it? Have they met him? You didn't do it for justice or revenge or to defend anyone. You did it 'cause you thought it was fun!"

Kite was scowling, enraged. "We better ourselves by making up for past mistakes, accepting that we did them. That's our creed, Tracy. None of us are saints."

"Right! Exactly!" Gordon yelled back.

They glared at each other.

"Um…Kite?" Janet was staring at them as she had come down the stairs. The rest had long scattered to follow Kite's orders. She stood there, looking uncertain. "We scoured the coma wing, like you asked. We found…"

But what, or rather who, they had found was being manhandled out from the coma ward. A rotund but not actually obese short, balding man with glasses and a familiar white lab coat was shoved to the floor in front of Kite.

"What," the doctor asked, struggling to his feet. "Is the meaning of this?"

Kite pursed his lips. "Doctor. How nice. We've got a patient for you…"

So, while the hostages were moved down into the asylum, chanting like a line of monks, Davis got some medical help from the bitterly complaining doctor, whose name was McKay, according to the name plate.

"You can't…here, my dear, hold that right _there_…you can't put them in there! Those people are still unstable psychics, whatever else we've done to them! They could be _mentally_ damaged by prolonged exposure!" He waved a hand at the line of hospital staff, patients and visitors who were chanting their way, blank eyed, into the left wing. Now all the anarchists had joined them in the lower levels, and it was getting kind of crowded in the asylum corridor. Davis was up on one of the benches in the break area, still groaning, as Ivy and McKay worked to dig out the bullet and stitch up the wound. It was messy work, and Gordon kept his distance.

He watched Jack and Stacy instead, who were slumped against the wall looking grey faced and overwrought. Stacy was as silent and as expressionless as ever, but Jack was crying. Janet was trying to comfort him.

"Good," Davis groaned. "Maybe they can see what it's like to be locked up and doped like psychics are regularly. Yeeooow!" He whimpered. "Painkillers, _please_!"

"Oh, suck it up," Kite snapped. "You really want to have drugs administered by a guy who happily keeps other people in comas deliberately?"

"It's better than having to feel every stitch as it goes in," the doctor retorted calmly. "The needle, my dear…no, the _needle_…thank you," McKay took the implement off Ivy, and threaded with bloody gloved hands.

"Boy, you really like making friends, doc," Kite commented sardonically. "I can tell by the way you try to pick a fight with guys who could burn you to a crisp."

"As opposed to _your_ method, young man? Storm the building and damn the consequences?" He left a neat row of stitching in Davis. Gordon watched carefully, but could see no signs of foul play. The doctor was sarcastic, but professional. "Bandage him up, and get a blanket for him. Best he just stays still for a while, although infections the biggest risk right now. That, by the way, is why I wanted to give him an antibody shot."

"No," Kite said flatly.

"It's your funeral. No, I take that back. It's _his_ funeral."

Kite punched the man so hard he was sent back against the wall, and Kite was on him as Gordon moved in to restrain him.

"You sick, twisted, murdering _bastard_! You kept these people down here, you locked them in their minds and waited for them to die! Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw your corpse out in the street right now!"

McKay was bloody nosed as Gordon dragged Kite back a couple of steps. With some ceremony, the doctor snapped off his gloves and got out a white handkerchief to stem the flow. Dropping the gloves on the floor, he reached into his lab coat. Kite and Gordon both tensed, but he merely drew out a tiny badge, and threw it at them, angry. "_That's why_."

Gordon picked it up while Kite watched the doctor. The doors behind them closed on the last of the hostages, who were silently panicking behind the glass of the asylum as they became aware of where they were. Jack and Stacy winced, as did several others.

The tiny gold badge bore no words, but it was an insignia. The top half was a Caduceus – the international symbol of medicine, two snakes winding around a winged staff. But at the base of the staff was a different symbol. It was an eye, bisected vertically by a roman three and crossed by a key. It was familiar.

"The Miles Keye Commission," Gordon said slowly. "This is their insignia."

"What?" Kite took his eyes off the glowering doctor to snatch it off Gordon to look.

"Right," the doctor snuffled indignantly, tipping his head back. "They gave me that as one of their agents."

"Agents?" Gordon broke into the breathless silence that followed. "I thought the Miles Keye was a group of judges."

The doctor shrugged. "It's _run_ by judges. But judges are just lawyers – they're not scientists or psychologists or enforcement agents or psychics. What do they know about the ins and outs of psychics? So they need, and employ, other people. Experts, field officers, investigators," McKay gestured to himself. "Specialists."

"This is bull," Kite threw the badge away. "Who cares what he's a part of? The PRA behind the PRA? What's the difference who signs his paycheck? He's still the enemy!"

"You really don't know what you've stumbled into, have you?" McKay shook his head. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, although his nose was turning a lovely purple. He put the now red handkerchief down. "Miles Keye was _investigating _Seredo Hospital, and the PRA. They suspected a lot corrupt stuff was happening here."

"_What?_"

"Yes," McKay said with bitter glee. "I realise this might be a difficult concept for you to grasp in your self-righteous brains, but it's not just psychics who don't like what the PRA does. They planted me here over a year ago, to find out if the rumours were true. As a doctor and an agent, I could hardly pass it up."

"A doctor?" Gordon suddenly snapped. "A year has gone by, and these people have been slowly dying and you've been what? Watching them? Doing nothing?'

"Hardly nothing," McKay shot back. "Since I came no one has disappeared into the night and many thousands of drugs have stopped going missing. Now the guilty parties are being forced to be more secretive, they're being forced to lie outright instead of creatively being honest or merely not being asked at all. That's something we can get them on."

"It's taken you a _year_?" Davis hissed from his bench.

"Look kid, knowing something and proving something are two different things!" McKay perched himself on a bench, looking righteously angry. "We have to do things by procedure! With proof, and evidence, and all that stuff! We're people of the court, we don't have the _luxury_ of doing the wrong thing for the right reason! All things have to be done in the right way at the right time, by the book, otherwise what's the point of the law?"

"The law, right," Janet snorted, stalking over to join the conversation while the others all watched silently. "What's the law ever been to us except a way to put us down, and trap us, and keep us caged and powerless? I bet you've never had to wear a stupid armband and get scanned like a carton of milk wherever you go!"

McKay didn't look at all upset at this. "No, and I wouldn't want to be. But I also wouldn't like someone riffling around in my head or playing with my feelings or setting me on fire either," he shot a brief look at Kite. "Psychics just don't get it. They don't. Okay, we don't get what it's like to be psychic either, but psychics don't understand how terrifying it is for someone who only has five senses to their advantage to know that someone else can hurt them just by thinking about it. It's hard to enamour people to the idea that psychics can walk around without any kind of checks or balances. Human beings aren't exactly known for their self control are they? That's why we need laws. Psychics and, huh, normals both." McKay shrugged. "Look, it's not a perfect world okay? It's been over a century and the law is _still_ trying to catch up with psychic rights. It's hard to get a system based on the idea that 'all men are created equal' to suddenly accept that they aren't and keep everyone's rights sacred in the meantime. We can't give you a solution that makes everyone happy, but we can at least have systems in place to _deal_ with problems and solutions, to argue for them, to change them, to keep them, to save them. Which, really, was why I was here."

"Pretty speeches," Kite spat. "Sounds like every other pack of lies I've been fed."

"Look, you believe what you want," McKay got up off the benches and strode forward to fearlessly prod Kite in the chest. "But _this_ is a fact. Because of you, a year's worth of my hard work is now down the crapper – the non-psychic prisoners, the illegal druggings, selling drugs for profit, corruption, stealing, beating, abuse; stuff that _you_ came here to bring into the open. Well done!" McKay threw up his hands.

"Why?" Janet frowned.

Gordon nearly groaned. "Because now they can claim a bunch of crazy anarchists have broken in and changed the records. They can blame everything on us!"

"Bright lad, that man," McKay laughed without humour. "You've all really helped the cause."

"Shut up!" Janet snapped, but she had paled. Kite looked enraged. The crowd of anarchists was murmuring agitatedly, punctuated by hostages pounding on the panels from the left wing.

"Why didn't anyone announce this? Why wasn't it _known_?" Kite punched a wall in a temper.

"Excuse me? This is a covert investigation," McKay seemed amused. "If we told them we were looking, how long do you think the witnesses and traces and evidence would have lasted? They would have been squeaky clean. Until we had enough to nail them, nobody needed to know."

"Great," Davis' head hit the bench as he flopped back. "Even when people are fighting for us, we don't matter."

Disgusted, with himself, with Kite, with McKay, with this whole stinking mess, Gordon turned on his heel and took a couple of strides toward the left wing, looking at the frightened interaction within. The hostages were clumped uneasily in the middle as the inmates looked them over with wide, drugged eyes, like they were fascinating subjects. There were so many circling that the wall slapper and the drawer and the rockers and the pacers had been forced to the edges.

"Now what?" he said, mostly to himself. There was an awkward silence.

"The patients!" Janet broke in. "We can wake them up – some of them were held here illegally, they can be witnesses!"

McKay rolled his eyes. "We haven't prescribed these people sleeping pills, you know. They're in a chemically induced coma. Even if we gave them amphetamines, which, you know, we _wouldn't_ unless we really _wanted_ to cause complications, taking them off the coma juice right now would mean they wake up in one or two days – minimum twenty four hours. I don't think you have that kind of time."

Gordon grimaced. Doctor McKay was a sarcastic and arrogant little twerp, but his eyes were intelligent and sharp with details. Gordon didn't think he was lying.

He watched the chalk drawer make a pattern of geometric shapes on the floor, following each line with his eyes. The giant shape was actually made up of a lot of other shapes, sharp, geometric lines crisscrossed asymmetrically across the blocky, misshapen figure. The huge structure that means nothing. That was ironic. It made him think of the shanty towners.

The chalk drawer seemed entirely focussed on his task, up to this point. Nothing else existed. But now he looked at Gordon, with a blank, rheumy gaze – he was blind. Blind…but Gordon knew he was being looked right through, undressed, exposed, probed, and filed. Their stare was a solid bar of substance, full of silence.

Without actually transferring his gaze, the blind artist drew a rough circle around his shape of shapes. The chalk seemed to move of it's own accord. Gordon finally broke the stare, and looked down to what he was drawing.

Not drawing. Writing.

ALAN

Gordon drew a breath, staring at the letters. He jumped when his vision filled with an angry hostage, who pounded on the panels angrily and yelled soundlessly. Gordon backed up, taken aback.

"Tracy?" Kite called over. "Tracy! Stop staring at the human zoo and get back here! We need to organise defences, and you can put yourself to actual good use."

"Tracy?" McKay repeated. "Tracy as in Jeff Tracy?"

"My Dad," Gordon said shortly, walking back. "So?"

"So? The only reason I'm here is because of you," McKay grinned. He added in the face Gordon bewildered puzzlement. "This all started with you and your Dad, you know. Back when Jeff Tracy sued the PRA, the records and affidavits and stuff went to the Miles Keye for scrutiny. After it was all over, the Miles Keye decided to look deeper into it, you know, to keep it from happening again. What they found…well, lets just say it got a lot more complicated. A lot of things needed looking at. And so you got me," he pointed to himself. "And several dozen like me planted around the place, poking around. I'd nearly finished – I have a feeling it was all going to end soon. But suddenly the President's been attacked and there chaos on the street, and your family gets scattered all over…is anyone else seeing the pattern here?"

"You're saying this is all a giant conspiracy," Janet said disbelievingly.

"Not conspiracy," McKay ran fingers through his scalp. "_Politics_. That's how this works. The PRA are under a lot of pressure to change their procedures and to become more accountable. They've been as autonomous as the old CIA once was. The federal agencies don't like psychics very much but the PRA has been stomping on them for so long that they'll happily help them get put through the wringer. The PRA has been very, very lonely lately, but now everybody needs them." McKay steepled his fingers. "Politics."

"And my _family_?" Gordon demanded.

"Could be that you're victims of the situation," McKay replied. "More likely the whole thing was a personally engraved 'screw you' from the upper echelons. They don't like your Dad, kid, and the PRA are experts at finding weak spots to exploit."

"Enough," Kite swung a hand. "If this is your fault, Tracy, then you can help us fix it. We'll shore up the defences at the staircase – we'll hold them off, and out of the basement."

Gordon frowned. "And then what? We block that off and we're trapping ourselves in here. They'll get in eventually! You can't be serious!"

"What would you have us do, then?" Janet retorted angrily. "Go out there and give ourselves up?"

"You do that, and you're dead," McKay cut in. "The PRA can easily tie up all their loose ends in this chaos."

"We have to make a stand here! What else can we do? They've used us and thrown us aside, but now we can _hurt _them. We have to make a stand!" Kite demanded.

"We're tired. We're hungry. We're outgunned, outclassed…you can't be serious! They'll flatten us! They'll _kill_ us – every last one."

"There's nothing _else_ for us! What have we got to go back to? A trash pile for a home, charity, powdered food even the army won't take, scavenging for whatever we need? At least _this_ way we'll get our own back before we die! What else have we got? What else _can_ we get?" He waved his hands at the crowd. "Come on, you all know I'm right. We can either live cringing or die standing! We have to draw the line! We've got nothing to loose that they haven't already stolen!"

Gordon could feel fear and confusion on the faces around him. It was on Janet's face too. She said in a small voice. "Are you sure there's nothing else we can…"

"Do? Do what? We go out, they kill us. We stay here, they kill us. Let's at least give them a show!"

_You bastard_, Gordon thought angrily. He could feel the resolve hardening around him. The whole thing was a suicide mission. It might have been one from the start. "I'm not going to fight, and I'm not going to die! Dying is easy! Killing yourself is giving up. There are people who need you! Hundreds of them, back at the shanty town. You're the best of them, what's going to happen to them with you gone? This is stupid. More than that – it's selfish and it's cowardly. My brother is out there, calling for me! I'm not going to let him down just for some idiotic dream of glory!"

He turned and ran for the stairs – he didn't have much time.

"Tracy! Where are you going?" Kite yelled.

"Out! And if you try to stop me, the PRA will _never get the chance_!"

He ran up the stairs, past the startled sentries, past the corridor, sprinting for the main doors. Pulling at the debris with his bare hands, he wrenched himself a hole as the footsteps came behind him.

"Tracy! No!"

Gordon ducked out the hole, and walking into…

…a halo of spotlights, a symphony of clicking guns, being cocked. There were squads of silhouettes around him, shot through with flashing lights.

"_Freeze!_"

Time to see if they would listen if he took the first step….

Gordon raised his hands. A wall of flame climbed up the building, like a glowing skin, and Gordon dropped as the first bullets flew, hitting the deck in the shadow of it.

"Hold it! Hold it!" Gordon yelled. "I just want to talk! The fire is just so you'll listen! There's _lots_ of flammable stuff in hospitals, you know! I just want to talk!"  
There was a moments silences, the building was red hot and glowing like a beacon lights, flames licking up the walls.

"Okay! We're listening!"

Gordon slowly got up again. A gesture of trust. The pressure of a hundred pointed gun barrels was making his thoughts run like quicksilver. One bullet, that's all it would take. One bullet.

"I wonder," he said to the shadows with a sickly grin. "If I might make a proposition?"

Why did he have to do things the _hard_ way?

--------------------------------------------------

"Where is he? Where is he?" Forlan yelled into his headset. "Squad B, squad C, report!"

"_Squad C here. We went down to the train in the sun basement. The hairdressing idiot was down here. He's wearing a similar suit to Tracy – are you sure that wasn't who you saw_?"

"No! It was Tracy!" Forlan swung back to the view screens. "Shit! Squad B, get back to the corporate level, he came back to the office!" He watched Jeff Tracy emerge from the wall again. "Squad C, get up to the main level, re-guard the doors. Move, move!"

Cursing, he kicked the door. "And somebody get me out of here!"

He was forced to sit and listen as the squad closed in up top.

"_Suit spotted on level fourteen. Confirm, level fourteen_."

Forlan checked. There was a figure in a suit, running away from the camera. "Confirm. Get moving."

"_A team to the base, B, C and D to the lower levels. Break!_"

"_B team, heading for the north elevators. C team, check._"

"_Team C, heading for the east elevator. We're on twelfth. A team, subject location?_"

"_Subject spotted. Damn, he's climbing up the damn elevator shaft! Team D, set up barrier at all exits on tenth. The rest of you head for the roof!_"

Forlan scanned the cameras, trying to catch the elusive Jeff Tracy on them. He watched and he watched, and he saw the figure enter the elevator shaft on the eighteenth and start to climb. "The is Leader. Subject in shaft of elevator on eighteen, over."

"_Copy Leader. Already followed him to the twentieth, over._"

Already? Forlan frowned. Then he spotted something else. "Squad C, there's a security guard exiting the building, where are you? I gave orders to go straight to the main, over."

"_We're already here boss. No security guy. Can't you see us, over?_"

Forlan stared. There wasn't a single agent on his view screen. "Squad B, team A, please report you're position, over."

"_Twenty first, stairwell, over._"

According to the screens, they had just hit eighteenth – where they had been two minutes ago. The cameras were delayed. That limp-wristed…

"Sonofabitch!" Forland screamed angrily. "Call it off, call it off, he's in the plaza! He's outside Tracy Corp! He's in the plaza!"

-----------------------------------------------------

Scott stood on the halo of the plaza, enjoying the night breeze. Above him were the stars, and below him was constellation, a mass of shifting lights. You could here the yells and shouts even all the way up here at the top.

He'd examined this from every angle. The incentive to sign was there, it was _there_. To get his family back, he'd even work with a worm like Palton. But still, the papers sat, because Scott knew that he couldn't live with the look in his father's eyes if he signed them.

_So what do I do?_

He stood on the edge of the landing ring, and looked out at the city. Scott couldn't believe how _angry_ he was. It wasn't just Palton, or the PRA, or the bigots, or the indifferent public – it was the whole ugly monster that they made. Once you got away from one, there was another to deal with another, and once you dealt with that, you're dealing with the other two, and once that was done, the first one would be ready again. Futility; that was a battle song of psychics.

He'd never given up before – he'd never had the luxury to do it. His brothers needed him to be strong. They believed him when he told them to fight, to challenge, to not just accept that this was as good as it got. No, there had to be something more. There was always a higher place to fly to, if you knew the way. But now, looking out here, Scott couldn't see the way as clearly as he usually could. And he was _angry_.

_No one had the right to take that from him_.  
"Well Scott," Palton had finally re-emerged, and carefully stepped out onto the landing ring. He was careful not to move beyond the open. "I think you'll agree that my offer has been most fair. I can't imagine you would have any conceivable problem with it. Now, will you sign, or will I escort you…out."

Scott opened his mouth, but all that escaped was a hiss. The scream hit him like a sledgehammer.

_AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!_

…_Virgil…where…Virgil…_

Scott only realised he was toppling when he saw the lip on the landing ring rush up out of the dark, Twisting down, he grabbed it before the shock caused him to take a terminal vault, and felt his still aching arms give a protest scream as he was forced to haul half his body weight back from the edge. Two of Palton's thugs had moved forward to grab him and haul him back.

Scott heart hammered. That was a little closer to unaided flight than he ever wanted to get. He also started to chuckle.

"Now Scott, surely you can think of a more productive end than _suicide_…why are you laughing?'

Scott laughed uproariously. He knew why he felt so unbalanced, he knew what had caused the darkness in him, but it couldn't touch him now. Nothing could. When someone needed him, nothing could touch him, nothing could stop him. When someone needed him, he would help, or die trying. _They_ needed him now. And it was such a relief that Scott had to laugh.

"Go screw yourself Palton," Scott said cheerfully. "You can use the paper your smallest room, that's all they're good for. And you must know what you can do with your pen."

Palton's eyes narrowed. "Surely you didn't think I would let you leave without signing, Scott?"

"Really?" Scott asked softly as the thugs tightened their grip. Scott shook his head. "Bale, Bale, haven't you learned your lesson yet?"

There was a slight noise, a tiny noise. It was a tiny groaning, followed by a _ping_.

And then there was another. And another. And more, and more, so that every second was suddenly increasing the symphony of groaning clanks and pings all around. Ever so slightly, the landing ring trembled underfoot. It contained a promise.

Scott smiled darkly in the face of Palton's suddenly wide eyes. "My father only does the metal. But I always strive to go higher. Or, you know," _ping_ went the support bolt that attached one of the support beams that held up the massive ring around the building. "Lower, as the case may be."

_Ping. Ping. Pingpingping_…

-------------------------------------------

The squads were all running for the outside, into the crowd of reporters, but the throb of helicopters was already beating the air when they raised their weapon and screamed for order, and they were too, too late…

Tracy had escaped from Tracy Corp…

-------------------------------------------

End Part XIII


	14. A Tracy in the Bone

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds belongs to the Anderson's, Carltons, their affiliates, and latterly Ford. Not the author.

Warnings: Intense scenes, supernatural and adult themes, violence, light bad language

Authors Note: Whoohoo! Only one more part (or one more part and an epilogue, depending on how we go) to get through after this. I hope you enjoy this chapter, we've spent a while building up to it.

Thanks to all my reviewers.

Please read and enjoy, and tell me what you think!

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Part XIV – A Tracy in the Bone

_In which there is – the Escape of Condor Reaming – Andrea and Angelo – Striking Back – the Hard Way – Want – Rafting the Rails – Get the Boys – Getting Out – Riot Below – Bringing Down the House – First Retrievals – Stairway to Heaven – Corman's Downfall – Siege End – Running Again – Lashing Out – Insider Information – Compelling Footage – Alan's Leap of Faith – A Tracy in the Bone – The Rising Sun _

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In all the fuss and confusion and running around during Jeff's little camera trick, Condor Reaming escaped from custody.

No one could figure out how, exactly.

But Forlan had even bigger problems than that now, as he watched half a dozen press choppers detach from nearby buildings and helipads to follow the fugitive mogul wherever he went. He couldn't even shoot the man _down_.

Condor Reaming walked out of Tracy Corp, and, since the press were all scrambling into vans and fighting their way through a haze of rubber neckers and protesters, he was entirely unnoticed as he slipped away into the streets.

He made a call. "This is the Flamingo," he allowed himself a small smile at the code name. He'd chosen it because everyone looked uncomfortable when he used it. It was so cool. "All clear, all clear, and wrapped up in a bow. Have you got the scientist?"

"_Got him_," said the other agent at the other end. "_We just rendezvoused at the farm. We'll be in international airspace within two hours_"

Condor sighed. "Very well. Good luck to you." He hung up.

It was quite heartening to think, a thousand miles away, that a good thing would come of this no matter what happened to this crazy country. He smiled as he meandered into the park, lights glittering in the trees. A job well done, he thought. A job well done.

------------------------------------------

Andrea Smith-Valentin leaned against the wall in a huff. It had been a hell of a night. She felt used. She was going to kill _someone_ over this.

A hand tugged her dishevelled suit. "What?" she snapped.

It was One-Seventeen. He was being carried in the arms of the burly man who had jumped the PRA agents. The smaller one with the bat was talking on the phone. "He didn't make you do anything, you know," he whispered.

"What?" Andrea asked, tugging loose her arm. The big man glared at her.

"He couldn't," One-Seventeen sighed. "That's not how it works. He couldn't make you do anything you didn't want to." Andrea glared at him, but One-Seventeen just smiled. "Something to think about, anyway."

"Yeah, right," Andrea stalked away. That just made it worse. She dug out her phone. "Daddy? Look, just shut up and listen, okay? I've got an exclusive about the Tracy family, I bet your editor would love to hear…" She moved into a cabin and shut the door.

The big man, Tony, gently shook the frail form in his arms. "Ready to go now, bambino?"

"Yes."

Gino came up, still holding the bat. "Come on, the family borrowed some cars. They're coming out to meet us." He gave One-Seventeen a kiss on his bald scalp. "Come on baby brother. Mama missed her little Angelo."

Angelo smiled. All in all, it couldn't get better than this.

---------------------------------------------------

_Ping dong clank snap_. The sound was like a drum beating. And rising above it, a furious, heart rending groan of metal under pressure.

One of the guards drew his weapon, but even as it came up Scott was on him, putting all of his pent up frustration and anger and humiliation behind the blow. The man flew back and landed hard, and was down for the count.

The second guard, a clearer thinker, was backing away hastily, hands raised, and fled entirely as the tarmac beneath him started to move – not violently, gently; but that was much worse. There was a dreadful inevitability about the slowly tipping ring.

Palton, well, Palton was not quick on the uptake. "Stop! Stop! I _order you to stop!!_" He screamed, half enraged and half terrified. He jabbed a finger at Scott who was advancing on him. "If you don't stop I won't have the shoot to kill order rescinded! Do you understand? The moment any of your brothers is in contact with a gun, they're dead! Do you understand?"

The clanks started to run together like machine gun fire.

------------------------------------------------------

Gordon started with light in his eyes and fire at his back. "You can shoot all you want, but you can't get in. We can shoot all we want, and we can't get out! So sooner or later we're going to have to talk! Come on!" He yelled at the crowd of armed officers. No one moved, or spoke, and there was nothing but the hiss of fire and the howl of distant sirens.

There was a metallic clicking noise, and Gordon's heart jumped. _It's not going to work! They're going to shoot me!_ In that moment of mortal panic, Gordon thought about turning the fire on the crowd, even though maintaining the glowing wall was draining his remaining strength like water from a sieve. _No! _He screamed inside himself. He screamed it at the fire inside him, willing it not to come forth. _I am not an animal! I don't just react! I am not a killer either!_

The sound was the sound of a weapon being lowered and the safety coming on, as it turned out. An officer stepped forward. "Okay. I'm listening."

"_Rye, step back behind the barrier_," Someone on a megaphone howled from behind the glaring lights.

"I would thank you all to shut up!" the man yelled over his shoulder. "He's talking! Dialogue first, bloodbath second, or didn't they teach you that in the PRA? First man that fires, I'm gonna shoot back, and I'm aiming somewhere that doesn't grow back, got it?"

He turned to Gordon. From what Gordon could make out in this lighting was a tall, slender man with a long face covered in stubble. He looked about as tired as Gordon felt.

"Detective Rye, 56th Precinct," he introduced himself. "And you are…?"

"Gordon," Gordon replied flatly, strung like a piano wire. "Uh…_Tracy_," he whispered the last part, well aware that the PRA might take a pot shot at a Tracy on principle.

Gordon was impressed by the way the man only raised an eyebrow. "Gordon, huh? Looks like you're in a spot of trouble here, son. I, personally, would like to get home to my wife and kids tonight. If I can get there without having to gun down a bunch of teens and crazies and sick people, so much the better."

"Yeah, me too," Gordon sighed. "Look, I don't have much time, okay? There was a reason why we did this, right, and it wasn't terrorism or anarchy or politics or any of that bull. This was a rescue operation, okay? There are lots of people who need help down there...and…we need you to…help us." His chest was on _fire_, his back was a line of pain, his head screamed and pounded and howled. Gordon could feel an unnatural chill creeping into his very bones. He didn't have much time. He knew it.

"Rescue?" Rye sounded sceptical enough. "You mean the psychics in the basement? Look, I know everyone says they're tortured and abused down there, but if you had ever seen them walking around the streets…"

"Shut up, and listen," Gordon's mind worked like he had a fever. "If I tell you that we tampered with the patients, you have to check them over, right? You have to give them blood tests and stuff, right?"

Rye blinked. "That'd be standard, yeah."

"Good. We'll release them to you," Gordon offered. "To _you_, understand? Not the PRA. Don't let the PRA take them, understand?"

"_Rye! Move back! Get the psychic on the ground._"

"Not the PRA?" Rye repeated, ignoring the yelled instructions.

"Who do you think put them down there?" Gordon said. "Look you know who I am. And you know you're right when you think I've probably got the best reasons in the world to want to hurt the PRA. You don't have to listen to me. But I'm here, and I'm not roasting anyone, and you_ can_ come here and start blasting, just like the PRA wants, just like I'm sure they're pushing for, because so much can get hidden under enough blood and bullets. But what good will that do? But I'm here and I'm giving them up to you. I'm not asking for anything. No strings attached. I need you to trust me."

"Trust _you_?" Rye asked sceptically. "Kid, half the country is in chaos, the police have been running around fixing the PRA's problems and not protecting the people we're supposed to be protecting…"

"Doesn't that include those people in there?"

Rye shrugged. "After all the trouble you all have caused, I think the world would be good deal cleaner if we just let you fight it out among yourselves. Do you know what happens to people who get stuck in the middle of this stupid psychic-normal feud? Do you even think of them when you're all moaning about yourselves?"

Gordon looked at the man, taken aback. "No. Tell me, is it worse that having to get scanned like a carton of milk and treated like an ex con wherever you go?"

They stared at each other.

"You're not going to help me?" Gordon asked. He could feel a panicky desperation welling up inside him. It never occurred to them that they wouldn't listen to him. _Why would they listen to us, though? We weren't exactly 'opening a dialogue' when we stormed the place_.

"I didn't say that, exactly," Rye replied with a grimace. They were screaming on the megaphone again, but Rye's body still resolutely blocked the cleaner shots.

Gordon held his breath.

The fireball took out the spotlights all along the right, and two police cruisers while their officers jumped for cover. Both Rye and Gordon ducked flat to the ground as a short burst of gunfire answered.

"_What the hell was_…" Rye hissed, angry.

"It wasn't me! I swear!" Gordon protested. "Why would I do that _out here_? It's wasn't me! I don't want this to end badly! I just want to get back to my family!"

There was a pause, punctuated by the yells and shouts of hastily regrouping teams beyond the barricades.

Rye glared at him, but relented slightly. "Okay. Okay, I'll accept that for now. But whatever that was, I suggest you get back in there and _fix it_. You're not exactly my first choice for a peacemaker kid, but you're all we've got. I'm not your friend and I'm not your ally, I just want to get home without shooting anyone. So get in there and get control. If that happens again, I won't be able to stop them storming in, okay?"

Rye turned and held up his hands. "Nobody move! Nobody! We've made a deal! Everyone hold it! We've got a deal going!"

Gordon darted back and pushed his way back inside the barricaded door. "_Who the hell just did that?_" he yelled, heart pounding. It was mostly a rhetorical question anyway, because he turned on Kite. "You moron! They nearly _shot_ me! Those people aren't playing around! You _sick bastard_!" Gordon didn't even think of using fire and he shot forward, determined to punch Kite's lights out.

"_Relax_, Tracy," Kite retorted, shoving him back. "You're the one who went out there in the first place, don't look at me! And who the hell gave you the right to make decision for _us_?" Kite was scowling. A lot of them were scowling.

Janet was furious. "You're not one of us, you stupid yuppie! We let you come along, that doesn't make you one of us! How _dare_ you…"

"What? Go out there and risk my life so that you idiots can live through the night?" Gordon snarled back. He wasn't taking this bull anymore. "What's wrong with all of you? Do you _want_ to die? There's an army out there, do you understand? With guns! Do you think you'll win because you're right and they're wrong? Get real! You're all psychic!" We waved his hands at the crowd, enraged beyond reason. "You _know _that isn't how it works!"  
There was a silence.

"We're not going to die, Tracy," Kite growled.

"Oh yeah? How are you planning to stop the bullets? They're going to storm the place and we have only one exit. Do you know how we can retreat? Did you know they can blow holes in walls? They call it mouse holing. They're going to hit us from all sides, what are you planning to do? Are you going to use the hostages as shields? What's the plan for when they run out? Use the coma patients? Wait, I remember we're here to save them, so that's out." He shoved Kite right back, hard. The lights made the whole lobby look yellow and hellish. "Go on Kite. Tell them what the plan is! Tell them how they're going to get out of here alive," Gordon shoved again. "_Tell them_!"

Kite glared furiously as the crowd all turned to him like spectators in a tennis match. "We made our stand, Tracy," he snarled. "What's the point of scrounging in garbage and living in ruins and keeping our heads down? It's never going to get any _better_."

Gordon looked at the crowd. A broken, tired crowd. They looked scared and uncertain. Most of them were older than he was. "Bull. That's an excuse used by people who are too scared to keep fighting. You know what?" Gordon said in disgust. "I'm glad I'm not one of you. Those people down in the asylum have more courage than you!"

Kite punched him hard, but Gordon kept his footing. "You want to leave? Go ahead! I'm not leading these people into the hands of the PRA!"

"No, you're leading them to slaughter," Gordon retorted, clutching his jaw. "Did you ask them if they wanted that? Do any of you want to die? Any of you?" Gordon yelled to the crowd.

There was an awkward, heavy silence. The shanty towners didn't look at each other.

"We're…we're not going to _die_, Gordon," Jack mumbled uncertainly, Stacy on his back. He looked pale and strung out after handling the crowd. "We didn't come here to die, right Janie?"

Janet pursed her lips, but this time she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She looked to Kite for an answer, who was standing like a pillar of obsidian.

"What's your answer then, Tracy," Kite snarled. "Send out our only leverage right into the PRA?"

"There's a detective out there, I think he's on the level," Gordon replied. "Do you know what chain of custody means? They have to get those people checked out if they think we've been tampering with them."

"What does that mean?" Janet asked.

"It means, child," said the tired voice of Dr McKay, coming up from the asylum after doing his rounds. "That they will be checked into a public facility and given a full exam and will definitely have a blood test. All nice and neat and on public records and, since they have been forced to ask for police assistance, there's no way they can bury it." McKay shrugged. "Not a bad solution. If they let you get away with it."

Gordon could feel himself swaying slightly. His body was shutting down, he could feel it. "Bring them up here," he said.

"No!" Kite snapped.

Gordon fists clenched. "You want to fight me, Kite?" he hissed. "Go ahead. But how are you going to explain to them that you'd rather us all die?" he cocked his head at the watchful crowd.

"What d'you think is going to happen to us?" Kite snapped back. "Do you think they're just going to let us walk away?"

"I don't know," Gordon held up his hands. "I admit it, I don't know. But when those people start getting tested, this whole house of cards is going to start coming down, one way or the other. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Kite glowered.

"Isn't it?" Gordon persisted. "Or are you just some lame, two bit loser riding on a glory dream? You're _responsible_ for these people, Kite. Not just them. Everyone in that warehouse. What's going to happen to them when they're best and brightest don't come back? Did you think of that?" Gordon got right up in Kite's face. "This isn't all about you, Kite. You've suffered? Name me one person here that hasn't. If you want to be angry go ahead, get yourself killed. Don't drag us into the pit with you. But – if you want to really make a difference, then you make the hard choices, okay? I'm not saying it's going to be pleasant, but it's better than dying. You decide right now, _right now_, okay, but I am sick of this macho, posturing bullshit. You can fight me if you want, but I've got too much to loose to let you beat me," Gordon was nose to nose with the anarchist. "You won't win. Not against me. Right here, right now, I could take down an army if it meant getting home. So what's it going to be?"

--------------------------------------------------

Alan clung to the inflatable raft like a limpet, and roar of the turning wheel right next to his ear was deafening. He could actually feel the vibrations of the train moving along the track at high speeds, taking him, thankfully, far out of the range of bullets.

The shadows next to the track ran together in a blur, so that there was nothing but the roar of the train and the pitch black of the night and the tiny, bobbing light that marked the front of his saviour train.

Of course, as tough as the white water raft was it was not designed for this sort of punishment. Swinging terrifyingly at the end of it's line, it ground across rough ballast stones and unforgiving iron rails, until, in one abrupt second, the inflated raft was sliced open and deflated all at once.

Now only a few layers of thin plastic kept Alan from being minced across the lines, his body no longer held stable by the cushion of air but tumbling and jerking as bit of the deflated raft got caught and was pulled and tugged and rolled in the rush. Alan hung on like grim death, his fingers frozen in a rictus, well aware what would happen to him if he didn't get far enough away.

The ride had lasted several eternities and only a few minutes when the line broke, or more accurately, the raft was ripped away and only a chunk remained attached to the rope, which was dragged away into the night.

Alan lay on the stones as the train rushed past, so close he could feel the heat of the turning wheels, and remained still as the roar abruptly died, and the train disappeared into the pitch blackness just yards from Alan's eyes. It left lingering streaks of red reflectors that dwindled and vanished soon after. Alan was alone.

He slowly and painfully detangled himself from the remains of the raft. His legs had been bounced across rough surface of the tracks several times as we was flung about, and he now covered it patches of road rash.

_Maybe I should call it train rash_, he thought to himself as he eased his legs up so he could see the stinging, burning damage. _Track rash? Rail rash?_ What ever it was called, it damn well hurt.

Alan's whole body was shaking with adrenaline and nerves. It had been a stupid and desperate thing to do, but stupid and desperate was all he had. He knew he didn't have time to stop, not even to collect himself, not even to catch his breath, because he knew they would be coming for him. It might take some time to stop the train and get it back here, even if they could do it, but they would follow him nonetheless.

Alan gathered up the raft, found some flat ground next to the tracks, and broke into an aching, limping run.

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Jeff Tracy didn't pilot either of the two helicopters that had plucked him neatly from the plaza of his building. He sat tensely in the co-pilot's chair, watching Randall bank smoothly upwards and over the constellation of the city.

_I'll do anything, I'll give anything_, Jeff looked at his clenched hands. _Just please let them be safe._

"Sir?" Randall's voice came through Jeff's headset. "I think we should head for Palton's first, sir."

Jeff turned to look at his security head. "Why?"

"I got in contact with some of the press," the big man jerked a thumb at the following trail. "They're all for handing out info as long as they get the best shots. Apparently there is a massive riot going on in the plaza there. Anti-psychics, pro-psychics and get this; they say there might be a real psychic caught up in it somewhere. From what I hear, the source is pretty reliable. Some sort of ex-PRA agent."

Jeff's jaw moved. "Go for it."

--------------------------------------------

Virgil opened his eyes, the terrible pressure gone. The scream had been deafening but it had been brief, dwindling away as whoever it was withdrew defensively. The sense of his brother John faded also, and Virgil reached into his own pounding head to try to find him, searching in the chaos for any hint that he was still there.

He sagged back against the desk drawers. Nothing. But he _had _been there, Virgil had felt him; it had been a connection through a connection. John would come for him. Virgil knew he would. Curling up, he put his head in his hands, willing the pain to go away. He had to get out of here.

We wondered if that psychic, whoever she was, had released his location. He couldn't take the risk that she hadn't. But where could he go? It wasn't like he had a layout; it wasn't like he knew any cunning little exits that wouldn't be heavily guarded. Virgil would just have to make it up as he went.

As he opened the door a crack, the corridor beyond was filled with agents. They were all on the ground. That psychic scream must have been _really _loud. They weren't unconscious, but they were rolling around clutching ears or foreheads as they tried to re-orientate.

_Go_. Virgil shot past them while they were still stuck in their own heads, before they could collect enough awareness to realise he was there. He ran blindly for a stairwell, and was torn between going up and going down. Fate decided for him, as one of the doors opened below him and he heard the sound of guards staggering in and swearing. He went upwards. It might be for the best in any case; Virgil didn't even know what floor he was on, and didn't want to end up running right back down into the cell block.

He went up a floor, and cracked open a door at the next landing. It looked like offices here, a wide open space ringed by cubicles that was rather like a design lab.

It was the chairs that made him pause. They were lined like dentist chairs at regular intervals. They had straps. They had wires. Just looking at them gave Virgil a fervent desire never to actually sit in one.

There were a few scattered people about, all of them talking on phones – screaming into them, in fact. They weren't looking at Virgil. Slowly and shakily, he eased his way in, not letting the door close fully to avoid any noises, and ghosted through the forest of eerie, empty chairs, crawling below the vision scope of anyone sitting at their desk.

Guards burst into the room, yelling and swearing, and the din became louder as the cubicle people and the guards all started talking at cross purposes as one side demanded to know what was happening, and the other demanded the whereabouts of a rogue psychic. Virgil, hidden in a forest of wires and pistons and all sorts of other machinery that made the chairs work, was unnoticed. He scurried, heart pounding, to a far corner and slipped into the break room.

The reprieve was temporary – very temporary. The guards were already spreading out, starting to scour. They were edgy and angry, and spoiling for a fight; Virgil had a very good chance of being shot rather than captured. Virgil looked for an escape – any escape. He was very lucky, because he found one.

When the guards came to scour the break room, all they found was ground zero for bad coffee and old newspapers. They didn't notice that one corner of the air conditioning vent was popped out of place right over the table, but they were still recovering from the psychic attack.

Virgil had slithered in, and was gone.

-----------------------------------------

When John came to he realised he was in the midst of chaos. The ringing in his head would not subside, though he felt a bitter triumph as the invading psychic's mind had been pummelled out of his. Oh God, did his head hurt.

And he wasn't the only one. Around him, people were trying to get up, staggering and weaving, trying to make sense of the sudden, pounding pressure that had been there, and had disappeared with a sonic scream. He sympathised. After all, John was used to this.

There was a moment of consternation as the two sides realised that they were helping each other to their feet. Even as their ears still rang, someone threw a punch.

And that was it.

The two sides, not even standing straight, lunged at each other, waving weapons, placards, pipes and fists. John had thought later that it was lucky that no one had thought to bring a gun, just righteousness and anger. Otherwise it could have very well been a war zone.

Dale had just thumped a screaming anti-psychic waving a placard with his tyre iron, someone else and wheeled their car into a pro-psychic vehicle and the drivers were having a punch up that was rapidly becoming a scrum. Tracy ducked a blow from where she was near John, and John leapt into the fray, landing a hard knee in the guys stomach and shoving him back as he doubled over. Danny came to defend his back as another one came at John with a pipe. Parrying like a fencer, Danny stepped forward, right on the assailant's foot, and punched him in the stomach.

It was chaos. And worse, they weren't wearing uniforms, so the sides quickly became blurred, and it was quickly turning from a fist fight of causes to something primal, animal, something darker and more uncontrollable.

Something nearly brained John from above. It was a supporting bolt the size of his fist.

He looked up and gasped.

The halo of Palton's spire was slowly tipping like the angel was drunk. Support beams had popped loose from their mounting in the buildings sides, and were hanging like tassels, the ring was bending and warping as sagged on one side, but more supporting rods were popping loose all around it, and soon it would be sagging on all sides.

He gave Tracy and Danny a shove. "Get out of here! It's coming down!"

He turned and headed across the chaos, even crawling over scrums to get to Red, who was wailing on Father Stewart with every sign of enjoyment.

"Red!" John yelled. "Red!" Trying to get someone's attention in this mess was next to impossible.

One of the supporting rods far above them popped loose and swung towards the building on it's warped bolts, taking out of window. The shattering diamond rain of glass got the attention of the crowd. John ducked as he felt the pieces chink and twinkle around him. There was a groaning from above, so loud it cut through even the cacophony of the mob. The crowd was suddenly still, and silent, and looking up in shock, as the ring around the building tilted. It was so massive that it swung out over the crowd.

That was all the incentive anyone needed. No matter the cause and no matter the feud, anti and pro alike were suddenly stampeding away from the imminent destruction. They shoved and swore at each other, running like a pack of rats through a small hole.

John kept his eyes on the ring. The rods were coming loose symmetrically. Someone was controlling it. A psychic. Scott?

_Scott!_

-------------------------------------------------

_Scott!_

"Come on Palton," Scott challenged the man. "Isn't this what you wanted? All the psychic power here, in your hands," there was a tortured screech as metal rods crumpled under the weight of the massive ring. The flat surface was tilted and cracked alarmingly. "Reach out and take it, Palton. You want to put a leash on me? Go ahead. _Try it_." The halo shook like an earthquake.

"Please, stop, stop!" Palton was on his knees, unable to keep his balance on the falling ring. It starting to drop, one shuddering inch at a time. "I…I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Please!"

The ring dropped. It dropped an entire three storeys, but the widening shaft of the building meant it could not fall all the way down Support rods caught in windows, dragging shattering lines down the building, ripping out girders. Below, there were screams from the fleeing crowd.

It ground to a halt with a screeching, tearing noise, stuck fast around the building like a lopsided band. The ring was nearly torn asunder, cracked, pitted and warped by it's fall. Scott got to his feet. "You'll remember this, Palton. You'll remember this until the day you die. You'll remember it the next time you go trolling for psychics who are so desperate they'll enslave themselves to you. Because if you _don't_," Scott leaned over the terrified mogul. "_I will be back_!"

Scott was going to move off the band, because there was every possibility that it would come apart after what he had done to it. He felt quite savage in his triumph. Scott had lived a life of control; it had been forced on him out of necessity, to keep him from hurting himself or anyone else. It had felt painful and terrifying and so damn good, to finally let loose.

The whine of helicopters was in the sky. There were maybe a dozen of them, all coming in for a look, shining lights on the mutilated halo and spire, and down onto the nearly evacuated plaza. Scott looked down – he had to get there. John was down there, he'd heard him as clearly as if he'd stood by Scott's ear.

One helicopter swung over the ring, disregarding the debris still trickling from the wounds on the building. It did not actually land on the ring, but hovered over it, inching close to the tarmac. Scott backed away, ignoring Palton, who was crawling for safety through the one of the broken windows. He tensed up as he saw a figure emerge from the chopper and jumping down onto the tarmac. Friend or…

"Scott!"

Scott froze. "_Dad_?"

He pelted across the uneven surface and past the glare of the lights and _yes, yes, it was_.

"Dad!" Scott nearly tackled his father, and was soon nearly suffocated by his arms. He hadn't felt this way since he was six years old.

Jeff kept murmuring his eldest's name. He'd been so scared for Scott. He pulled away just enough. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He patted his son down without actually letting go of him. "Are you okay?" he put his hands on either side of his sons face.

"I'm fine. I'm great," Scott was babbling, and he knew it. "I just tore a building in half, it was good." He laughed hysterically. "You're _late_!" he accused in the same breath.

Jeff grinned and bumped his forehead against Scott's. "Sorry Scotty, Daddy had to work." He hugged his son again. "I'm so glad you're alright."

The halo gave a warning rattle. It wasn't safe ground to be walking on anymore. Jeff hustled his son toward the chopper.

"Dad, we have to go down!" Scott yelled over the downdraft. "The plaza! John's down there!"

-----------------------------------------------------

John wasn't strong enough to stretch out for a second time as the helicopters approached the landing ring. It had fallen quite a way from it's original pinnacle, but it was still a long way from the ground.

_Scott_. Scott was up there. Some weight that John had been pulling on his back seemed to vanish even as he thought it. _He wasn't alone_. And Virgil – he knew where he was now. He could go and find him, make sure he was okay.

The riot police had arrived, and we're trying to take control of the wreckage of the plaza.  
People didn't seem to know which side was which, where they were or even which way was up. It was a wonderful mess of mental white noise that left John quite clear of trouble, staying in the danger zone as he had done.

"I think you're ride's here," a voice commented from across the plaza.

John turned, and the thin, balding man gave him a salute. "Who are you?"

"Ackleby." The man smiled. "Just tell your brother that I told him so," the man had replied. He turned, and was lost in the crowd in an instant.

The roar of helicopter engines was suddenly louder – they were dropping into the wide plaza and onto the surrounding buildings.

"John!" the pro-psychic folk were running up to him, being whipped by the wind of the choppers. "What's happening?" Dale stared at up the machines.

"My ride's here. I've got to go," John reached out a hand to Dale. "Thank you. For all your help. You didn't have to. You didn't have to listen to me either."

Dale shook it. "It was a pleasure, son. It's nice to know that we can fight as hard as we claim."

John gave Danny a farewell punch. "Take care, kid. I'll see you around."

"Yeah." Danny grinned. "Thanks John. For being honest."

John turned to the last man, and gave him a nod. "I hope you remember that what the PRA did to my family was no worse than what you did, Mr Robinson. I'd like to think you'll try harder."

Red shrugged. He had a bloody nose and bruised knuckles. "I hope you find your family, John. And remember that there will always be lies coming from somewhere. Even you use lies. You've got to give people a story," he waved a huge hand at the destroyed tower. "One they can remember."

John grimaced, but the chopper had landed now, and John turned towards it with a final wave. Some people you couldn't change.

Some people you'd never want to change. John knew this as he was yanked inside the passenger section and caught in a double hug. His chaotic searching tendrils of mental connections hat John had always used to ground himself slid back into their rightful place. The stress went away.

"Thanks for dropping of the Porsche, son," Jeff murmured into his sons hair. "I hate to think what Palton would have done with it."

"All part of the service," John smiled. "I hope you missed me too."

"A little. But I really love that car."

John laughed and laughed.

"Where to now?" Scott asked, still anxious. He was gripping his brother's arm in a vice. "Dad, have you got the tracker? What about the others?"

"I know where Virgil is," John revealed, nodding to his brother. "Head West. I'll explain on the way."

----------------------------------------------------

There are several logistical problems to climbing around in air ducts. One was the noise. It was impossible to move without banging something. Second was climbing – the surfaces tend to be smooth and seamed, with no foot or handholds. The next there were exits – Virgil had seen very few vents that he could actually fit out of, and he was not going very fast. He had to lie still several times to avoid being spotted or heard by anyone around as he slithered his way through whatever duct lines would fit him. There weren't many.

He ended up squaring himself in an upwards vent and, using his own body against the walls as leverage, slowly making his way up it. His body was screaming at him the whole way. It wasn't like he was in very good shape after what Corman had done to him. But adrenaline and the need to survive was a powerful steroid, and Virgil forced himself to continue.

Eventually, after much sweating and swearing and painful contortions, he reached the upper vent, and came upon the roof. Giving the vent cover a powerful kick, Virgil slithered in a sweaty mass out into the open air. He lay there, looking at the first sky he'd seen in almost two days.

He could barely see past his pounding headache, his arms flopped uselessly on the metal slats and concrete that made up the building's roof, stretched and throbbing. Virgil spat out the little triangle pendant he'd stolen back from the Major; he could not be induced to leave it behind.

There were no alarms. Virgil had been expecting alarms, big loud ones. He had been expecting searchlights. There were neither, and he could soon see why.

Good grief, he was still in the city! Around him the glowing pinpoints of earth bound constellations surrounded him.

There _were_ guards though. There were pattering and echoes of feet in the quadrangle below, as guards swarmed to close off the perimeter. The faint sound of voices yelling orders echoed up. Virgil crawled to the edge of the building a peered over the parapet. There was a very high wire, high voltage fence encircling this cluster of warehouses and offices. He could make out the lines of the wires by the light of the guard houses that dotted along the entrances and at regular intervals along the fence. They had the walkways lit up, guards scurrying along them. It was a prison, it was just rather cunningly disguised as something else. It probably was listed as a research lab or something similar. No one need know about the basement.

Now what? Virgil tried to force himself to rise up, and scan for an exit. Climbing down the building was no good – there were no convenient drainpipes or fire escapes or anything else he could use, and, in any case, the building he'd climbed out of was, of course, more in the central cluster than near the outside. He'd be dropping right into an ant's nest of guards. There _was_ a roof door. It was propped open, and surrounded by cans of sand and cigarette butts. But going back in to where he'd had just escaped out of was not an appealing idea.

He'd had no plan, Virgil realised. But there was no way he could have formed one; the only thing he could do, and the only thing he had done, was run madly for whatever exit he could find. And now he had run out of exits.

He looked at the roof door again. It was tempting. It was also the only other option than huddling on the roof and waiting to get caught.

The voices in the dankness around him were getting louder, and more urgent. Virgil headed for the door.

And abruptly back pedalled and dived sideways as shots were fired out of it. Virgil didn't think. His leg kicked out, hit opening door and slammed it back on whoever was coming out. There was a satisfying thump, and Virgil took off, back towards the vent he had come out of.

"_Tracy_!" came the familiar bellow. Corman was awake. Virgil had ducked behind the vent, temporarily out of sight. "Come out, little prince! I'm going to have the pleasure of throwing your bullet riddled corpse at your royal daddy's feet!"

A spray of bullets punched at the vent where Virgil hid. He flung himself flat, crawling out of the line of fire, which unfortunately put him in the line of sight.

"There you are, you little bastard freak!" Corman gloated, taking the time to step closer to Virgil, who fought the urge to cower back. His shielding powers were good, but he couldn't stop a bullet. There was nowhere to run. The guards below were all watching and pointing. "I've been looking forward to this moment, since the moment you got here!" The Major's insane grin was oily with glee. "Do you want me to shoot you in the knees first, little prince," he fired off a round near Virgil's feet, making him jump backwards. Virgil had no idea how close the ricochet came. "You will _suffer_ for what you did, little prince. When you are dead, I'll get you family. I'll get them, and you will have to listen to them _suffer_ in the grave, little prince. _Suffer _for everything they've…" Corman was suddenly drowned out.

Helicopters filled the sky, shining beams of light of the chaos below. One shone blinding lights on the tableau of Virgil and Corman, and the Major's eyes flickered to the intruders for one fateful second…

_Virgil!_

The unexpected wall at Corman's toes neatly tripped him and he landed face first on the concrete, and Virgil was already a rapidly retreating back before he'd landed. Virgil sprinted for the parapet, and as Corman's howl of rage came out he'd reached it. Overhead, the helicopters were coming down, but the space was cramped and they were going too slow.

Much to the gaping crowd's surprise, he stepped off.

He didn't fall. He just kept running on a nearly invisible platform, or, more accurate, a nearly invisible set of stairs that lead up and out and away from the building. Virgil was building a path out of the sky.

He didn't stop moving. He couldn't. His momentum meant he was supporting a few pounds of moving weight, instead of over a hundred pounds of deadweight. Movement was the key. It still felt like someone was stamping on his naked brain. It hurt. It screamed. It burned all the way down his spine, until he was one big ache.

When the helicopter landing rail dropped into his vision he nearly ran into it, and leapt off his own wall to get a foot on it.

Corman was far off the sanity horizon now. His bruised mind was screaming, there was a red berserker haze in front of his eyes. He leapt with a roar after his quarry, which was being snatched from his grasp. He wouldn't be denied! Not by a bunch of freaks!

He stepped off the parapet, running without thinking, reacting without considering; awed spectators later said that his hatred was so great that he actually shot several feet from the building, driven by pure loathing. However, his feet were trying to find a surface that was not actually, technically there.

Corman dropped like a stone. Fifty-fifty as to whether he actually noticed. But soon he wasn't noticing anything at all. Ever again.

No one in the helicopter actually saw this however. Virgil had managed to snag the second chopper, the one without his father or brothers in it, and frantic security personnel were trying to staunch the blood flow from his nose, eyes and ears. One was trying to prise open his fist. He was clutching the pendant so hard that it had cut into his hand.

Virgil convulsed, and tried to fight them off reflexively. But there was a soothing presence in his mind, gently calming him down.

_Shhh, it's all right, Virgil. You're with us, now. You're safe._

_John?_ Virgil tried to remember something. Something important. Something about a computer. He thought about a computer screen. He had a vague impression of a yelling voice. _Pyro…Seredo…pyro_…Virgil tried to force his mind to work as others fussed over his body. _John…Gordon…_he felt a gentle prod at his memories. _Gordon_…that's right…there was someone he had to find…

_Okay Virgil,_ John whispered soothingly. _Okay, I got it. We're going to get him_.

------------------------------------------

Gordon wasn't sure what was happening anymore. The walls were coloured like a psychedelic chameleon, and wavered like sheets of linen. Everything seemed so far away. He wondered if he was dead. He was so cold, and yet he was wet with sweat.

_I can't be dead. The only one I could talk to if I was dead was Alan_. Not that he minded talking to the Sprout, mind you. Right, right, hang on, he had to find him first, didn't he? Then he could talk to him.

Well he couldn't stand around…lay around…here all day.

There was a pillar of flame walking up to him. It seemed to be creeping along the ceiling. Someone get an extinguisher…Gordon raised a hand to take it out, but it didn't seem to listen to him. Was that his fire? The fire inside?

"_I could have won, you know. You were tired. You were weak. I could have won. I just want you to remember that I didn't._"

Oh, no way in _hell_ was Gordon taking any lip…spark…something…from his own insides. "'m not an animal. I don't just react. S'what if you c'n burn a city to the ground…sooner or l'ter you have to deal w'th _somebody_. No one likes us…no one likes meee," Gordon wailed gloomily. "So it's not like ya can wait 'round for a guy who likes ya to do it for ya…gotta do it the hard way," Gordon sighed. "Always doin' it the hard way. Always have. Always will. Burnin's easy. People 'r nuts. Gotta deal w'nuts. People. I gotta talk to my brother now…" Gordon nodded to his inner fire amicably. "He c'n see the dead, you know. Gotta go find 'im. It's no life, bein' dead." The fire withdrew. Funny, it looked a little like Kite.

Someone speared him in the arm. Gordon saw warriors crawling over the walls, crackling and gibbering. They sounded like squeaky wheels. He looked around him. He was _surrounded_ by dead people, looking at him and smiling, and maybe it was just a trick of the shifting, living lights, but he could see them surrounded by shadows, shadows of families, things, that grew up and around them, were a part of them, so faint they were almost withered away now. Gordon nearly cried. They'd all given up so much. So much, for the likes of him.

_Gordon? Gordon, can you hear me?_

Gordon frowned. "Go 'way, John. I need to talk to Alan. He's the one that can see the dead."  
_Gordon, please, tell me if you're okay!_

"I'm dead! O'course I'm 'kay. I just need Alan so you can talk to me."

_Gordon, I need you to listen now…_

He looked at the spear in his arm. "There was no need for that." He thought some more. "Where are all the dead guys going?"

There was a sudden moment of terror as Gordon suddenly realised the world wasn't the way it should be, and he closed his eyes, trying to will this bewildering world of illusions and colours and shadows away. He opened them, and felt the real world coalesce back, almost sheepishly. He stared at the white ceiling. "What the hell…?"

Doctor McKay's voice was right by his ear. "Delusional to coherent in two and a half minutes. Well done, that man."

Gordon turned to stare at him. He was laying on a gurney. There were quite a few free now. There was a massive, noisy undertaking going on around him as people were being wheeled out and carried up out of the asylum.

"What's going on?" he asked, or rather croaked. God, he felt sick. Head cold, respiratory disease and stomach bug all in one. He groaned.

McKay sat back. "You collapsed about twenty minutes or so ago. You had severe low blood sugar – when was the last time you ate? – I just have you a shot of glucagons. That should relieve some of the distress."

Gordon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get his head together. It didn't take long for the shot to start working – that was the good thing about it.

"Hang on, hang on," Gordon muttered. "Was there a fire somewhere?"

"You mean aside from the one you nearly torched me with," Kite asked sarcastically. "No."

"Oh. I did that, huh?" Gordon said weakly, resting back against the headboard.

"Yeah, you did," Kite shifted his weight. "You nearly blasted the lobby to bits," Kite did have a slightly singed look about him. "You were delusional. Why didn't you just _ask_ for food, Tracy. I'm a pyro too, I wouldn't have said no."

"You said I wasn't one of you," Gordon shrugged. "I had no right to ask. Either I am or I'm not, Kite. Make up your mind." He tried to raised himself, and put his head in his hands until the dizziness subsided. "What's happening now?"

"The coma patients are being given to the authorities. They're calling in trucks to get them all in. The police are, anyway. The PRA are being pulled back. Order of the President. A couple of police are already in here, helping out," McKay shrugged. "No one seems to know what to do about us."

For the first time in a while, Gordon felt the tides of fate shift in his favour. "So…no one's being arrested?"

"Not yet," Kite said darkly. "But I wouldn't hold your breath that they won't."

"Responsibility bites, doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Kite demanded.

"Well, you can do the wrong thing for the right reasons," Gordon shrugged. "That doesn't mean you will get away with it, though." Gordon knew. How many times had he been on wood chopping duty?

"So, me and the rest of them in chains is a happy ending," Kite grunted, more sardonic than angry.

"Everyone is alive," Gordon shot back levelly. "No one got shot. No one got hurt. A lot of imprisoned people will get their lives back. The PRA can't touch you now, apparently. Hell, maybe even things will improve for those poor guys," Gordon waved a hand at the asylum side. "You tell me."

Kite gave him a long, dark look. "You got everything sorted, don't you? Now you can go back to your life, and we can go back to…ours…"

McKay was playing idly with a glucose IV he had intended for Gordon. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if your…circumstances couldn't be improved in the near future, young man," he said idly. "I can take your story right up to the top. Believe it or not, there are some people up there who care. Not many, mind you," the doctors natural cynicism reasserted for a moment. "But there are. And with the current climate being what it is, they will be willing to listen to whatever you have to say."

"Beg for charity you mean," Kite snorted.

The doctor gave a little laugh. "No. These are not charitable people. But you will be able to demand. To shut you up and to keep things simple, they'll give you anything. Demand respect – don't ask for it. That's a language they'll understand. You can demand anything you want."

Kite gave a little smirk. "I like it."

Gordon was staring at the far wall as his memories all came back in a jumble. "Damn!" He threw off blankets and swung his legs around. "Damn! I have to get to the roof!" His feet hit the floor, which rocked unhelpfully. He steadied himself on the bed. The doctor propped up his other side.

"Hold on, you are in no condition…"

"No! They're coming! My family! I have to go!" Gordon felt the overwhelming fear and stress of the last few days well up and ambush him. "They're here! They'll know what to do! Let go of me!"

"Calm down!"

"No!"

"Jesus, Tracy," Kite came over exasperatedly. He reached around to loop one of Gordon's arms over his shoulder. "Stop acting like a baby. Why the roof?"

"They're flying in," Gordon muttered sullenly. "I have to go."

"Come on then."

"What?"

"Tracy, to get rid of you, I'd carry you in my arms," Kite announced irritably. "You're way more trouble than you're worth. Now are you coming?"

Gordon didn't have much of a choice as he was hauled out and up. Doctor McKay handed him the glucose, gave a sarcastic good luck, and turned to make sure the coma patients weren't about to be accidentally terminated while transported.

They wove up the stairs, past Jack and Stacy, who were playing trashketball in the lobby while the chaos reigned around them.

"I'm taking him back to his family," Kite grunted to their questioning looks.

"Oh. Okay," Jack shrugged. It was all pretty much the same to him. "We had fun. Will you come back? I don't know how to play poker. You said you knew how to play." His big face was upturned hopefully. There was something very endearing about it.

"Yeah," Gordon sighed. "I'll be back. I promise."

Stacy didn't speak. But she did give him a knowing little nod. Gordon nodded back. Kite pulled him away, towards the upper level stairs.

"Kite?" a voice called after them. Janet came running up. "Where are you…?"

"Just dumping the trash," Kite said. Gordon accidentally elbowed him in the side.

"Well, okay," Janet replied uncertainly. She looked at Gordon. "I still don't like you, Tracy."

Gordon shrugged. "It's a big club. At least you never tried to kill me," he grimaced at her. "Try not to…judge so much. There are good people around the place, you know. You might miss out if you've always got the spikes up."

"Don't tell me what to feel."

"Just a thought," Gordon shrugged.

They continued upwards. It was deserted and dark up here, and their footsteps seemed lonely as they moved through the wards, looking for the roof staircase.

"Kite?" Gordon asked in the moment of quiet. "How did you end up at the shanty town? You used to go to Garstone. You're parents were rolling in money. They didn't have a problem with the psychic thing. So why…?"

For a moment, it didn't seem like Kite would answer. Then he said: "They didn't have a problem, as long as I was willing to use it the way they wanted. My Dad was a Colonel in the army. Big fan of the army way, my Dad." Kite smirked. "Did you know that you can earn all your points in one go if you join the army? They don't have much use for soft talents, but they love hard one's like pyro's. Can't get enough of them."

Gordon did know. He privately thought that if it came down to a choice, he'd rather suicide.

"I told him I wasn't interested in his wars. I found a different war to fight. I set fire to his dress uniform and medals and never looked back."

"Oh." Gordon was quiet for a minute. "And Stacy?"

"They thought she was a retard. You know, mute and defective. My aunt and uncle tossed her and told all their friends she'd died. I found her on the streets after I left. She was nearly dead." Kite's voice was flat.

"Oh." Gordon muttered. They found the roof stairs.

"Here's where I get off, Tracy," Kite unwove his arm. "If you're going to come back, bring the cards and your cash, because I'm going to take you for every single cent of your trust fund."

And then he was gone, disappearing back down into the gloom of the hospital. Gordon smirked wearily. "Right."

He staggered onto the roof, a rather bedraggled figure clutching an IV bag like an offering. All around there was the roar of choppers; beams from the ground and beams from the choppers crisscrossed and clashed.

One had landed on the hospital helipad. The roar of it's engine still sounded strange to Gordon's ears, but he wasn't functioning all that well yet. He weaved his way towards it, remembering at the last second to duck as he came near the whirring rotors. Hands were helping him. They were like shadows.

"Hey, little brother," Virgil's drunken voice seemed to pull him out of whatever distant world he'd been inhabiting. "You look like crap."

Gordon pulled himself over to sit next to Virgil. He meant to punch him in the shoulder. Instead he put his head there, and started to cry.

---------------------------------------------

Alan had done enough running to last him a life time. But still he kept up a rather erratic pace back along the track. In the distance, a metal skeleton rusted against the false dawn. There was just enough light to stumble by. Behind him, there was a roar of trucks.

Trucks! Where the hell had they come from? Actually, they had come to meet the train further up the line, where the PRA could quietly slip off the train without having dozens of eyewitnesses at a normal station. They had been rerouted back along the line with Alan's escape, allowing the authorities to eat away at the head start being towed by the train had given Alan. He'd dumped what was left of the raft over a bridge, which had at least slowed down the two trucks, who's had to cross them slowly and gently, lest tyres get stuck in the wide gaps between the slats holding the rails.

Alan had to reach the abandoned structure. At least it was somewhere to hide. Behind him, imminent doom was slowly catching up.

Panting and exhausted, he kept pushing his body, willing the construction to inch nearer and nearer. In the last five hundred yards or so, the roar of engines was now distinct. By four hundred yards, the glow of the headlights was lighting up the road ahead of Alan. Three hundred and two hundred yards were marked by chaos, as one of the trucks blew a tyre on the not-exactly-road of the tracks and nearly careened into the other truck, giving Alan precious seconds. The last hundred yards could have been a world record, if anyone had been there to time it.

Alan dove desperately into the metal scaffolding and rusty girders, and other abandoned detritus. The place was more of less a ghost town now, with empty walkways and scraps of plastic and metals all abandoned for a better time elsewhere. The PRA agents on his tail were forced to get out and run to follow him, and Alan ducked and weaved, half in a panic, secreting himself behind metal sheets and piles of concrete piping deep in the heart of the ghost building. The agents, confused and lost, spread out and shone flashlights into every hidden corner.

Alan curled up. I want to go home, he thought. He could feel searching footsteps coming closer.

"…_get that riser into position and tie the stanchions into place_…_hold it there…come on lads, lets get moving…lets get moving…_"

Alan squeezed his eyes shut. A ghost…or more like a memory left behind in this place, yelled voiceless instructions to invisible workers, the whole memory now lost and nearly gone. There was no living memories filling this place, only dead ones.

Maybe he'd absorbed that from One Seventeen. The feeling of past actions left tiny, nearly eroded stamps in the air, showing you where living people had once worked, their voices still hovered in the air long after they had gone. He saw…_he saw_

…_temporary scaffolding up the eastern corner. We have to have it boss, those stairs aren't safe and we don't have the bolts to spare fixin' it_.

_Move it…get to work lads…shift it…we'll get it…swing her around…we'll start…remember to check…remember…_

"Come on kid, come on out," a voice called cautiously. "It's been a long night, let's call it quits, okay? Don't you want to go home? I promise you're not in any trouble. Don't you want to go home?"

Alan rolled his eyes. How old did they think he was?

He felt them coming closer, though. Easing out of his blind spot, he hurriedly crawled past the searching agent around the pipes, got up, and made a heart pounding dash through the open to the other side, where one of the towers rose higher than the rest.

He ran right into a hanging sheet of plastic, dusty and unused. It crunched and crackled as he fought his way past it, and he felt the beam of light swing around in his direction.

"East! He's heading to the eastern side!" A voice yelled behind him. Alan ran and tripped his way through the dark metal shapes, stubbing his toes on abandoned girders and feeling his way through the dark. Footsteps followed, his progress was too noisy.

He found a platform right over his head, and he raced to find an edge and haul himself onto it. It was wood.

He reached up to clamber onto a girder. A voice below him yelled "Hold it!"

There, in the dark, one of the agents had spotted him. Behind him, pinpoints of torches were bobbing and moving in the darkness, closing in.

"Come on kid, come on down," voice sounded weary. "Why not just make it easy."

"Because you're going to shoot me!" Alan yelled, suddenly angry. Everything he'd suffered in the last days were suddenly heating up to a molten volcano. "You think I don't know? Red Dwarf, right?" his voice echoed around the derelict building. "What is _wrong_ with you people? You were supposed to protect us, watch out for us, give us a voice! That's what the PRA was meant to be! Now you're just another way to keep us down! You want me? You _want_ me?" Alan gathered himself, and lashed out is a stunning mental blow. The agent wavered on his feet with a groan, struggling to keep his bead. "Take me. But think about this!" He reached out and gashed his own hand on an old nail. The pain was good, the pain helped. He saw the agent yelp and shake his hand. He looked at it confusedly. "I'm connected to you now! Shoot me if you want! Go ahead! The shock will kill you too!"

The gun wavered. "That's not true," the agents said, but he was uncertain. There were other cried and swears in the darkness. Alan wasn't just connected to him.

Alan felt his fury mount even higher. He had never been so angry before. "You don't want to do this! I can tell! But you do it anyway! You live in a country that demands people make their own choices, and then you turn around and do something like this! You stupid idiots! You want to kill me? You can walk a mile in my shoes first, then see if you like it!" And Alan gave them…access. Everything he was, everything _they_ were, everything that had happened….reflected back.

The agents started to scream. They all started to scream.

Used to the maelstrom, Alan used the moment to grab the bar, chin himself up, and clamber to the next level. He made it up two more before they thought to go up and try to stop him.

--------------------------------------------------

The helicopters whined along the open country, searching frantically along the tracks. They had passed the stopped train, but the homing signal that Jeff was accessing told him that Alan wasn't on it. Jeff could feel himself start to panic.

"_Dad, look ahead there_," Gordon's voice came over his head set.

"Gordon?" Jeff turned up the sound. "What do you mean, son?" He looked ahead and saw some sort of structure rising out of the new dawn.

"_Alan's there."_

Jeff was startled. "Are you sure?"

"_Trust me. I've got insider info on this one._"

The press choppers had stuck with them all the way so far, because all their Christmases had come at once. They actually started swooping ahead of the convoy now, hoping to get in the best shots.

-----------------------------------------------------

Alan climbed higher still. The shots pinged off the metal all around him. With so many girders and so forth crisscrossing the way up, getting off a clean shot was next to impossible for the PRA.

There was a flash of sparks above his head, but Alan kept going. The PRA didn't want to get to close to him now, so they were heading up the other side of the tower. Choppers were coming in, lighting up the PRA's efforts and Alan's, whipping the tower with downdraft.

By the lights, Alan could climb easier. It was more or less a giant jungle gym, and he'd always loved those. He clambered like a monkey, racing on the fumes of adrenaline.

He already knew what he had to do at the top.

It wasn't a vision, he thought to himself as he heaved onto an upper, upper, upper, girder, a couple of choppers banking to reach his level and filling the view with light. The sun was just about to rise. It couldn't be a vision. It was something else, something deeper, more profound than that. He raced along the wide girder, toward the main mass of flying machines. It wasn't even empathy, because he couldn't have read a houseplant right now.

The PRA agents came up on the other side, and one drew his gun. The choppers came closer. The roar of them blocked out everything, whiting out the windy world.

Even as the chopper sidled up and tried to position itself, Alan had reached the edge. He didn't stop. This wasn't even faith. This was about being a Tracy in the bone.

The press choppers were in a perfect position to capture the footage of the PRA trying to shoot a thirteen year old in the back.

They missed.

Alan leapt, dropped slightly and latched onto the landing rail. Frantic hands reach down to snag him before he could be wrenched or swung off. Eyewitnesses said later that a girder wrenched loose from the giant tower, nearly taking out the agents lodged there, and swung around to act like a foot hold for Alan, bumping him up into the safety of the chopper, but no one could confirm it. The Tracy's never told.

Whatever had just happened, as soon as Alan was in the chopper spun around and raced away into the still dark morning.

---------------------------------------------------

It took two hours to reach New York, and land on the roof of the New York Parapsychological Institute, reputedly one of the finest facilities for psychic care in the world. Just as well, they had run out of fuel.

Jeff didn't care. He didn't care about anything. He wouldn't have cared if someone had just started a nuclear war.

His feet were on the tarmac before the machine had even landed and he felt Scott and John help each other down onto solid ground. They limped toward the other machine, where some more familiar forms were fighting their way past concerned hands.

They met in the middle.

"My boys," Jeff was crying as he met them. "My beautiful baby boys." He wished he had more arms so he could gather them all to him at once. That was okay. He wasn't alone.

They whole family fell together in one cheerful, tearful, Tracy tangle.

The sun had come up.

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End Part XIV


	15. Epilogue My Island Home

Disclaimer: For the last time! The Thunderbirds don't belong to the author. They belong to the Andersons, et al.

Warnings: Adult themes, supernatural themes, light bad language.

Authors Reflections: Finished! This quickly got a lot bigger than I thought it would, but I was so satisfied at its end. I think, now that I reach the destination, if I were to do it again I would have made the chapters a wee bit shorter; but when all is said and done the story was so clear in my mind that leaving out details would have made me uncomfortable.

A hale and hearty and most kind thank you to all the loyal fans and reviewers of this very long story. You had to wait a long time a lot for me, and I appreciate that you did. Bows and love go out to you people.

I hope you like how it all goes. I wanted a sweet ending to what turned out to be a very tense and dark story.

Thank you so kindly for travelling with me this last eighteen plus months.

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Epilogue – My Island Home

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When Jeff had reached his first transit to Washington, DC, Alan had been placed in an isolation room to avoid self induced autism. When he was on the flight, Virgil had to have a haematoma removed from his head, and a drain put in. By the time he landed, John had split two knuckles punching a mirror in the hospital, his stirred brain chemicals suddenly hitting the depression end of the spectrum, hard. When his car was heading for the White House, Gordon had begun having seizures, his metabolism was all over the place. When he sat in the waiting room Scott had passed out entirely, his body going into shock from the still present concussion.

Every fifteen minute report seemed to bring a new horror. But even as Jeff's instincts screamed to go back, forward he went. This would never be allowed to happen again. When he got his second report received while sitting stiffly in the waiting room, his mother had shown up in New York, after having been shuttled down in the private jet. He allowed himself to relax a fraction.

When the head of the PRA came to sit down opposite him, they stared at each other. Then Jeff went inside.

Mr Fenill came up in a rumpled suit, and sat down next to his boss. He didn't salute.

"You let me down, Mr Fenill."

Mr Fenill appeared to think about that. Then he handed his superior the photo he'd taken from Mrs Tracy in Kansas. "Yes, sir," he replied. "It seems to be the policy of the company, sir," he hesitated, then added. "Contrary to what you taught me, sir." There was reproach in the words. Anger. Disappointment.

In the photo, a much younger Jeff Tracy smiled with his arm around another boy about his age, also grinning, holding up their latest catch from the river to the camera. The nameless face was familiar.

Jeff wasn't actually meeting the President in her Oval Office. He was meeting her in the wide conference room, fit to host the army of panicking aides, congressmen, officials and clerks who actually understood the paperwork.

They in turn were crowded by screens, machines and faxes, phones and computers, which spent most of their time measuring just how bad it was all getting. A dozen different news reporters chattered at cross purposes on a myriad of separate disasters. If Judgement Day were starting, the Horsemen would have been forced to take a number and wait.

In the centre of a crowd of paper laden aides the President sat. She was a dignified older lady, white at the temples and exquisitely manicured, and nothing of her presence was diminished by the thick bandages across her forehead and one eye, bruised jaw and hands.

The room quietened as Jeff stepped him, and his mind flashed to those saloon scenes in his favourite Westerns, and felt a dozen not hostile but not friendly gazes fix on him.

"You wanted to see me, Madame President?"

President McKay's jaw tightened. She shot a look at the other people, and most of them left. The Chief's of Staff that were already in the room stayed, and the bodyguards. Jeff ignored them, and focused on McKay.

"What I _want_, Mr Tracy, is to have you arrested," she spoke sharply. "Cities across the country are on high alert. Hospitals on the eastern seaboard are flooded with coma patients evacuated from Seredo. The PRA are dealing with protesters, hackers and internal audits. There are riots in all the major centres being spurred by pirate broadcasts. Already our neighbours overseas are withdrawing support from us and human rights activists are damning us in light of…certain footage. So far we've had more reports of death and violence than we get in war zones. _Congratulations_, Mr Tracy, you've managed to shut down an entire country. If it were in my power, I'd have you hung from the tallest building."

"Do you think that would help?" Jeff replied coldly. He sat down calmly. "Do you think my imprisonment would make everyone feel so much better? I haven't oppressed a minority for the sake of a shaky peace. I haven't pushed aside the problem, hoping it will remain hidden and everyone can nod to each other and be happy. You, and a line of others like you, have done that. Maybe you were just doing what you had to do, what seemed best at the time. We all know where best intentions lead, don't we?"

President McKay leaned back on her chair, weary. "What would you have me do, Mr Tracy? I cannot treat everyone the same, despite any Constitution. Even the first Presidents knew this and accepted it. The ideal within the reality."

"People shouldn't fear their government, Madame President."

"People shouldn't fear their own people either. But we deal in realities, not ideals. So, things being just as they are, what is it you want?"

"All I wanted," Jeff answered. "Was what I ever wanted – a safe home for my family, and the freedom for them to live a decent and fulfilled life. Succeed or fail is not the point. The point is that they should have the chance. I don't think that this country can provide even that." Jeff opened the box he had brought. Silver pendants with milky stone sat inside, slightly battered. "These are tracking tags my son's had to wear. Not just tracking but recording too," Jeff tapped on the pedants. "It's all very sophisticated and self charging. I am a realist too, Madame President. In a country of freedom and justice I shouldn't have needed them at all, but I was a realist. I was going to know where my sons were, and if they were taken and these left behind at least I would know _why_. For that alone this country deserves to burn."

They glared at each other.

"If you want to hear what's on them, go ahead. Hatred, ignorance, torture, anarchy or, perhaps worst, indifference. When the chips were down, Madame President, that's all they got. Not kindness, or compassion, or even the benefit of the doubt. Don't you understand? It doesn't matter who attacked you or why. If one simple event can turn a country into _this_," he waved a hand around the screens. "Then the blame can't settle on one person, one choice, one moment. Who was it that said it? All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."

"Give us the device, Mr Tracy," McKay said flatly, staring at the pendants. "It may be a solution everyone can live with. We know that scientist has been smuggled out of the country. But the device he invented might be the answer."

"To what? For what? Is there any guarantee it won't be just another weapon to beat psychics over the head? You have more than enough of those." Jeff appeared to reflect for a moment. "How about we make a deal?" He grinned.

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Things had settled down a bit, in the hospital. The nurses were actually allowing themselves to breathe for once. They had never suffered an inundation of Tracy's before, and it had come as quite a rude shock.

It wasn't just the medical problems, oh no. Tracy's did not take kindly to being sick. They did not take it kindly at all.

They tried to split them up. Exactly three minute and forty six seconds later, they had somehow managed to end up in the same long treatment room, and had done something which the interns were yet to ascertain to their beds, making it impossible to wheel them out again. When the head physician had protested Scott Tracy had stated flatly in a moment of lucidity between concussions that they were staying together and that was that. Something about the way he said it made the staff unenthusiastic about pushing it. It turned out to be the blessing in disguise – the five of them were so closely intertwined, had lived in each other's pockets for so long that the could tell what was wrong before all the expensive equipment even contemplated it.

So when Virgil passed out and needed an emergency drain, John was already shouting for staff before anything had registered. The staff wondered why Scott waited outside the bathroom for over twenty minutes while they all searched for the missing John, and only went after he heard the mirror smash. Alan was already dragging in glycogen from the supply cupboard (and goodness knows how he got in) a good five minutes before Gordon's insulin shock. Virgil woke up from his minor surgery just in time to yell for medical assistance as Alan slipped, entirely unnoticed, into an atypical seizure and was completely non responsive. Between all this there were nightmares, fights, bickering, bantering and betting on who would have the coolest scar.

Certain there was something behind the riotous behaviour, they had sent in the hospital psychiatrist like a secret weapon – right after Scott had taken out the TV screen with pinpoint accuracy using a hospital tray that had been rolled into a crushed cannonball. Apparently it was showing agents trying to shoot Alan in the back. The poor man had been turned in circles by the four boys awake at the time, diagnosing them with half a psychology textbook until he realised they had stolen a copy from the reference desk and were picking out the 'coolest sounding' disorders. It had some effect though. It was the first time they actually smiled.

Then Alan had come out of the seizure – and was still mostly unresponsive, even after a clean head scan. The neurologist said that his communication centres had shut down and he was virtually autistic, a defence against high emotions pounding him from all sides for the last few days. The psychiatrist had done nothing to endear himself to the Tracy boys by ordering Alan moved to an isolation room.

Honestly, the staff didn't know why he bothered. Not two minutes went by without one of them slipping away and breaking into the locked ward to sit with the youngest. And none of them would sleep – at least, they wouldn't all sleep at the same time. One of them was always watching, always awake.

And they ordered take out! Scott Tracy had been left with a credit card, and they were thoroughly abusing the internal phone system ordering deliveries from anywhere that would still deliver. It wasn't that they didn't appreciate the specially prepared, highly researched, triple nutritious hospital food. It was just as far as they were concerned, you could shove it. Anyone who helped them actually get it in got to share, and lots of the staff took them up on it, much to the head honcho's distress.

Twenty straight hours with the Tracy boys was worth a year of emergencies. Nurses were threatening to quit. And then a miracle appeared in the form of Grandma Tracy, who had been flown in special by Tracy Air. The matron was quite willing to live with the blistering dressing down she got over all the moronic treatment policy so far, because the spry old woman had her grandson sitting quietly and behaving like model patients in ten seconds flat. Alan had been moved back in. They had even helped tidy the room. Things settled down, adrenaline highs wore off, their wary watchfulness toned down, quiet rest became the order of the day. Everyone breathed in a sigh.

In the quiet, now dim ward, Scott sat up while the others dozed, and Grandma made her rounds. "I knew there was a reason I always went to play bridge during flu season," the old woman griped, stretched her back. "You boys could wear down a person's last nerve when you make yourselves sick. You get that from your father, you know. Except," she grimaced. "There was only one of him, thank goodness."

Scott grinned. "Sorry Grandma."

The old woman waved a hand. "If I'm not used to it now, lad, I've only got myself to blame." She yawned, covering her mouth genteelly. "I could use a coffee. You'll be alright here for a bit?"

Scott waved her out. Then he went back to wall staring. The nurses had had one thing right – there was something behind their raucous behaviour. They were all upset, stressed and scared. Something fundamental had been taken away from them in the last few days, and they were trying to fill the emptiness with noise. They all knew it, and no one said it. Scott buried his anger as deep as it would go. He would let it out later, when he was far away from Alan and John, where it couldn't hurt anyone. But he was so, so angry. And so, so depressed. The house was gone. Their old lives. Gone, just like that – no fanfare, no warning, no apology. It wasn't fair.

"Hey Scott," mumbled the bed to the right.

"What's up, Gordy?" Scott turned to the red head.

"Is there any food? I'm hungry."

Scott snorted. "Nothing new there." He looked around at the room. The take out cartons and boxes had been cleaned away. "I suppose we could call someone."

"They'll never come," Virgil grinned, his head bandages a stark white in the gloom. "I've heard at least two resignation speeches and half a dozen transfer requests."

"Damn. We should try harder," John muttered, turned over to face them.

"My bag…" Alan said softly, drawing his legs up to his chest.

"What, Sprout?"

"There's still stuff in my bag. I didn't eat any of it, it should still be there."  
Scott heaved himself up to get it from beside John. He sorted past various detritus – shopping bags had been stuffed in there after that thing at the mall, and found granola bars lurking in the bottom. He tossed them to Gordon.

Curious and eager to get away from the uneasy silence that had permeated the room, he poked through the bags. Virgil's stuff for his project, he sighed, and he'd probably never get to use them. His hand brushed thick envelopes, and he pulled them out.

Photos, he realised. From the museum. As he stared at them he realised – that had been a week ago. Only a week. It felt longer than that. It felt like a lifetime.

He flicked through them absently. Some were completely blurred, some had crazy colours and strange, half formed shapes of light in them. But that was a hazard of photographing psychics. School photos were always a nightmare. True to Alan's predictions, three were useable.

He stared at them for a while. They were so happy there. Grinning. Smirking. Behind Alan's head, a ghostly pair of fingers rose, even though Gordon's hands were both at his sides. Standing at Scott's shoulder, was a blurred figure, exactly their father's height. When they were together, they were happy. When they were apart, parts of them were always together.

Scott felt it well up on his insides. He was still him. They were still _them_. No one could take that away from them. The whole damn world and every evil in it had tried, and they always came back.

"Scott?" Alan looked up at him, concerned and confused. "What is it?"

Scott clutched the photos to his chest, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until tears ran down his face.

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Jeff came out of the meeting, not happy, but at least satisfied. Mr Fenill was still sitting in his chair, though his superior was not.

"Mr Tracy," he stood up as the man passed, and held out a slip of paper. "Here. I borrowed it from Kansas. I thought your mother would like it back."

Jeff said nothing, but took the photo. He turned to go.

"I don't always feel good about what I do, Mr Tracy," Mr Fenill said to Jeff's back. "But I'm not in it for petty triumphs."

Jeff tilted his head back just a little way. "Intent does not trump action Mr Fenill. If you can't match what you do to what you believe, why do you believe it the first place?"

Mr Fenill gave him a wry salute and walked away. No life changes in a day.

Jeff made it up to the roof to get to his chopper, and without much hesitation, walked up to the man waiting for him and punched his lights out. "I warned you Henry," he told the broad shouldered head of the PRA. Henry Frome – native of Kansas. He was picking himself up off the tarmac. "I said I would bury you if you came near them."

"Yes well," the man said, rubbing his jaw. "I never was one to heed warnings of any kind. Neither were you."

It would have been better if he'd been smug, or angry, or vindictive, or arrogant. But Henry just stood there, smirking slightly like he used to when they were both sixteen and thought they knew everything.

"What happened to you, Henry? What _was_ it about you and I that turned you into _this_? What did I do?"

"Oh, please, this wasn't about you, Jefferson. Sometimes it isn't, you know. But you never really understood that, did you? It was probably because you were an only child."

"What?"

"The world changes," Henry shrugged. "Do you know how many psychic children were born in our day? I heard it was something like one to every forty thousand. Now it's closer to one in a thousand. One generation, and you're already getting a jump ahead in the statistics. Pretty soon they'll be more than the current system can handle."

"That's it, isn't it? One day we won't be a minority anymore," Jeff took a step back. "One day it'll be people you being left behind. For Christ's sake, Henry, what kind of idiot retaliates against the _future_? One that may not even happen?"

"A well prepared idiot," Henry shrugged. "Do you really think being psychic makes you more evolved? More enlightened? Do you think that when a psychic gets to lead the charge, that humanity will usher in a golden age? Don't be stupid. On my worst day I couldn't manage an atrocity that any ESPer could do with a thought. Psychic or not, people are still just people."

"What did attacking my family accomplish?" Jeff snarled. "All this death and destruction is on _your_ head, you son of a bitch."

Henry Frome shrugged. "Collateral damage. Can't be helped. A family of psychics, Jeff. Good grief, you just can't do anything small, can you? A family of them. You have no idea how much that simple idea on it's own rallied and terrified the masses. You were a picture of future that no one wanted. After all – what use is someone who has no power in a world of powers like yours? Would you protect them? Shelter them?" The man shook his head. "I don't think humanity should rely on the pity of the powerful."

"You sorry, sad bastard," Jeff voice was steel. "You think driving them apart will help? If it's going to happen anyway, the only thing you can do – the only thing you _should_ do – is teach your children that power is not the same as worth. It's teaching people things like that that festers hatred." Jeff shook his head. "Why am I wasting my breath on you? You don't listen, and you don't care. You think you're a noble human being. You're the lowest form of humanity, you know that? That's a trait psychics and normal people share."

"You are leaving forever, Jefferson," Henry shrugged. "That's good enough."

Jeff felt an unaccountable but thorough hatred as the man walked away. The edges of the photo cut into his hands. Maybe Frome had had the last laugh in the end.

He stood and waited for his chopper to descend. It was time leave.

Henry Frome got into his car, and flicked on the phone. "Kyle, get me a one-way to Malaysia. I think I'm going to spend some time with our other projects."

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When Jeff got to New York, he was so exhausted he could barely see straight. He stumbled wearily through the wards in the hospital, and rubbed his stubble roughed chin, too tired to think.

Without asking for directions, he ended up in his son's room. The first person he saw was his mother, who was asleep, sitting up in a hospital bed, arms folded almost as if she were maintaining sternness in her sleep. He kissed her on the cheek. There weren't enough words in the world to express what she did for him some days.

Then he turned to look at the tangled pile of arms and legs that were his sons. They had lined up three beds and buttressed it with a fourth, so make one large platform where they all curled in various huddles around a pile of photographs.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jeff kicked off his shoes, and gently disentangled his eldest from his youngest. He should just about fit if Alan was in his lap. Scott's exhausted eye flickered open slightly as he was gently inched aside, and he shifted to make room. Jeff tucked his youngest into his chest and pulled Scott onto his shoulder. His fingers brushed John's hair, who was next to him, and his calves suddenly took the weight of Virgil and Gordon, who were curled up at the end. It was warm. It was comfortable. Some knot of power sagged and released inside of him, like a turbine winding down.

"You're going to be all twisted up like a pretzel," his mother's voice came from across the room. She hadn't opened her eyes.

"Yes, mother," Jeff agreed amicably, letting himself sink back a little.

"You really shouldn't have gone running off like that. Family is a priority, you know."

"Yes, mother."

"And you should be eating more. Those boys of yours are rakes, Jefferson."

"Yes, mother."

"Don't you take that hen pecked tone with me, young man."

"Yes, mother. Sorry, mother."

"Did you get what you wanted?"

Jeff opened his eyes. "I got everything I needed."

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"Hey, you're awake."

"Hey Scott. Where are we now?"

"Well, we re-fuelled in Brazil. Now it's just…"

"The Pacific perfect blue as far as the eyes can see."

"I thought you were an artist, not a poet, Virge. The others?"

"Still asleep. Are you sure we're going the right way?"

"Dad said stay on this heading. I wish he'd tell us what the surprise was."

"I know what this is. It's a murder suicide pact."

"What?"

"You know, 'a family, on their last nerves, decides to end it all in the heat of the moment…'"

"Son?"

"Dad! You're up."

"Number one, you've got a morbid sense of humour. And number two, as a responsible father and engineer, and at the very least as a Kansas farmer, if this family if carrying out a murder suicide pact it's doing it with a shotgun and a hanging noose. There's no excuse for wasting a perfectly good jet. Right?"

"Yessir."

"Geeez, Dad, you say _Virgil_ is morbid?"

"Still not as bad as you, Gordo."

"Where the hell are we now?"

"Language, John."

"You can't expect me to activate my eloquence centre without coffee. Pass the thermos."

"How long have we been flying?"

"Just over an hour, sir. We're not going to have enough fuel to get back if go much further."

"Hmm, we should be close enough now."

"Close to what, Dad? There's nothing _here_."

"There is something."

"What, Sprout?"

"There. Can't you see it? On the horizon."

"What _is_ that?"

"Is that an island?"

"I bought it years ago."

"_Bought_?"

"Relax, I didn't displace any natives. I thought it would make a good research and development site. Fitted it up with a lab and quarters for scientists, but the whole thing became too much of a logistical nightmare, so I left it as sort of a back up site. You know what the most interesting thing about this island is?"

"What?

"It's surrounded by at least three hundred miles of water on all sides. Completely and totally international."

"So?"

"_So_? Gordon! It's not under any country's jurisdiction! It's a kingdom! No Government!"

"No hate groups."

"No laws. No regulations."

"_No PRA! Wahoooo!!_"

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A month passed.

Things settled down as things do. What was hot news a day before seemed almost humdrum now, and psychics and the attack, while never quite out of the spotlight, had to share space with other things – conflicts, murders, accidents and disasters. The biggest one this week was a massive, multi-fatal train wreck in the Siberian foothills. The Device was becoming the latest science fad. It breathed new life into a very old problem. Brains was busy in London these days. Weren't they all?

The Tracy's just…recovered. Every day was a new step. Every new discovery seemed to change them, but at least they were always moving and not getting trapped. It was the best that could be expected. They leaned on each other. They always had.

"Okay, everyone ready?" Lady Penelope asked, raising the champagne bottle.

"I still don't see why we can't use _my _idea," Gordon muttered.

"Gordon, we are not calling the island the Tracy Fortress of Infinite Doom. No way am I scribbling that down on every letter home," Scott cuffed his brother on the head.

"Quiet please," Jeff raised his hands. "Alright, let's do this thing. Penny?"

"Right you are. I hereby christen this island…"

"And all who sail in her," Virgil added, grinning.

"…for all of time…"

"The most boring name ever," Alan groaned.

"After trudging all the way up to the summit, as if there not perfectly good rocks right next to the pool," John added with feeling.

"_Boys_, enough! Anyone who doesn't like it is free to live elsewhere!"

"_We'll be good._"

Lady Penelope laughed. "Tracy Island. Good luck and Godspeed." The bottle popped in a shower of glass shards against the boulder. There was a cheer.

"Hooray, now we can go back down."

"Tracy Island. How obvious is that? The Tracy's live on Tracy Island. _Boring_."

"Easy for a waterlogged brain to remember."

"You die now!"

"No running by the pool! John! Gordon! Virgil!"

"Relax, Scott. Wait until they're trying to drown themselves before you panic."

"That would be about…now. Okay, knock it off!"

Lady Penelope grinned as she took a seat by the pool. The sun was setting, and the evening was warm and perfect. Parker was lighting lamps around the pool.

There was one, tucked away, almost where it couldn't be seen. Six white armbands burned merrily in their tiny bonfire. For a moment, Lady Penelope wondered why it hadn't taken a centre point – a defiant place, where everyone could see it. Then she smiled. Why? Because those things had never meant a damn thing, not to the Tracy boys. They lived a hated life, and now died a fittingly invisible death.

"Like it?" Alan grinned.

"Very…appropriate," Lady Penelope turned to the youngest Tracy. "Do you like your home? I'll wager this was by far the most amazing surprise you ever had."

"It was amazing. It _is_ amazing," Alan admitted. "But…this is going to sound weird….I saw this place a long time ago. I've sort of…always seen it, I think."

Lady Penelope watched him dive for the pool, eyebrows arched in surprise. "Well. Fancy that." More things on Heaven and Earth…she turned her face to Jeff who was chatting with Scott.

"I think I can take you on."

"I'm just saying, Scott, that you're just a young man. A lot of mental power comes with age, you know. And you're still well…" Jeff waved a hand, grinning.

"Ooooh, he's gone and done it now," John whispered loudly from the pool.

"Oh?" Scott raised an eyebrow. Jeff went flying back into the pool with a yell and a splash. "Really? You think you still got an edge on me? You can't show me anything new, old man."

Jeff sputtered while his sons all jumped him. He was laughing breathlessly, great guffaws choked out past water. He winked at the others. The metal plate that covered the filter, that Scott has stood on for footing, flipped up like a jack-in-the-box lid, neatly catapulting Scott into the pool. "You're so right, Scotty."

Lady Penelope burst out laughing. The Tracy's went in for a no holds barred water fight. Something warm that had been missing from the world seemed to trickle back in on the sounds of laughter and indignant yells.

"Mister Tracy?" Parker's neat voice came from entrance to the house. "There's a call for you from Mister Hackenbacker, sir."

"Okay, okay," Jeff prised Alan off his back and splashed out, lobbing a ball back from the poolside. "Here. I'll be out to referee in a minute. Try not to kill each other before then."

He left his sons divvying up sides with good natured barbs on varying abilities. Grinning, he shook his head, and accepted a towel in passing from Parker.

"Brains," he waved to the vid screen. "How's merry old England? Nearly done with the lecture tour?"

"C-c-c-close, Mr Tracy," Brains smiled. "It h-h-has been a month of di-di-discovery."

"Excellent. When you're done, you should come out here. Sunshine is portioned out by the ounces over there. You should get into an actual summer."

"I gr-gr-gratefully, uh, accept, Mr Tracy. Y-You wanted me for so-something, though? I h-h-h…assist in any way I c-can."

Jeff sat back on his chair and steepled his fingers. "Yes. I had an odd thought when I saw pictures of that train wreck last week. I though you might….appreciate it's size."

"Y-yes?" Brains looked expectant, grinning curiously.

"I thought I might try my hand at specialist machines rather than just engines. You know, that disaster was right in the middle of nowhere – it wasn't that they couldn't be helped, just that no one could reach them. So let me ask you," Jeff tilted his head, his eyes gleaming into the middle distance of inspiration. "If you were going to design a machine – or machines – to get to those people, to get into to _anywhere, _to save anyone that could be saved, what would it be like?"

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The End.


End file.
